Part 14

“Then again, the police dunno how dangerous they are. You try to tell them things, they won’t really believe you. I’ve known for a long time there was a group of these people getting together to kill off all the rich men, the big men all over the country. They’ve been spying on these rich men, getting ready to kill them. They know a lot about them that you can’t explain their knowing. That’s how I got the idea they had somebody in your house, Mr. Ackerman.”

“Tell me what you mean. Tell me at once.”

“Well, sir, every once in a while I pick up scraps of conversation. One day I heard Mac--”

“Mac?”

“That’s McCormick, the one who’s in jail. He’s an I. W. W. leader, and I think the most dangerous of all. I heard him whispering to another fellow, and it scared me, because it had to do with killing a rich man. He’d been watching this rich man, and said he was going to shoot him down right in his own house! I didn’t hear the name of the man--I walked away, because I didn’t want him to think I was trying to listen in. They’re awful suspicious, these fellows; if you watch Mac you see him looking around over his shoulder every minute or two. So I strolled off, and then I strolled back again, and he was laughing about something, and I heard him say these words; I heard him say, `I was hiding behind the curtain, and there was a Spanish fellow painted on the wall, and every time I peeked out that bugger was looking at me, and I wondered if he wasn’t going to give me away.’”

And Peter stopped. His eyes had got used to the twilight now, and he could see the old banker’s eyes starting out from the crescents of dark, puffy flesh underneath. “My God!” whispered Nelse Ackerman.

“Now, that was all I heard,” said Peter. “And I didn’t know what it meant. But when I learned about that drawing that Mac had made of your house, I thought to myself, Jesus, I bet that was Mr. Ackerman he was waiting to shoot!”

“Good God! Good God!” whispered the old man; and his trembling fingers pulled at the embroidery on the coverlet. The telephone rang, and he took up the receiver, and told somebody he was too busy now to talk; they would have to call him later. He had another coughing spell, so that Peter thought he was going to choke, and had to help him get some medicine down his throat. Peter was a little bit shocked to see such obvious and abject fear in one of the gods. After all, they were just men, these Olympians, as much subject to pain and death as Peter Gudge himself!

Also Peter was surprised to find how “easy” Mr. Ackerman was. He made no lofty pretence of being indifferent to the Reds. He put himself at Peter’s mercy, to be milked at Peter’s convenience. And Peter would make the most of this opportunity.

“Now, Mr. Ackerman,” he began, “You can see it wouldn’t be any use to tell things like that to the police. They dunno how to handle such a situation; the honest truth is, they don’t take these Reds serious. They’ll spend ten times as much money to catch a plain burglar as they will to watch a whole gang like this.”

“How can they have got into my home?” cried the old man.

“They get in by ways you’d never dream of, Mr. Ackerman. They have people who agree with them. Why, you got no idea, there’s some preachers that are Reds, and some college teachers, and some rich men like yourself.”

“I know, I know,” said Ackerman. “But surely--”

“How can you tell? You may have a traitor right in your own family.”

So Peter went on, spreading the Red Terror in the soul of this old millionaire who did not want to be killed. He said again that he did not want to be killed, and explained his reluctance in some detail. So many people were dependent upon him for their livings, Peter could have no conception of it! There were probably a hundred thousand men with their families right here in American City, whose jobs depended upon plans which Ackerman was carrying, and which nobody but Ackerman could possibly carry. Widows and orphans looked to him for protection of their funds; a vast net-work of responsibilities required his daily, even his hourly decisions. And sure enough, the telephone rang, and Peter heard Nelse Ackerman declare that the Amalgamated Securities Company would have to put off a decision about its dividends until tomorrow, because he was too busy to sign certain papers just then. He hung up the receiver and said: “You see, you see! I tell you, Gudge, we must not let them get me!”

Section 53

They came down to the question of practical plans, and Peter was ready with suggestions. In the first place, Mr. Ackerman must give no hint either to the police authorities or to Guffey that he was dissatisfied with their efforts. He must simply provide for an interview with Peter now and then, and he and Peter, quite privately, must take certain steps to get Mr. Ackerman that protection which his importance to the community made necessary. The first thing was to find out whether or not there was a traitor in Mr. Ackerman’s home, and for that purpose there must be a spy, a first-class detective working in some capacity or other. The only trouble was, there were so few detectives you could trust; they were nearly all scoundrels, and if they weren’t scoundrels, it was because they didn’t have sense enough to be--they were boobs, and any Red could see thru them in five minutes.

“But I tell you,” said Peter, “what I’ve thought. I’ve got a wife that’s a wonder, and just now while we were talking about it, I thought, if I could only get Edythe in here for a few days, I’d find out everything about all the people in your home, your relatives as well as your servants.”

“Is she a professional detective?” asked the banker.

“Why no, sir,” said Peter. “She was an actress, her name was Edythe Eustace; perhaps you might have heard of her on the stage.”

“No, I’m too busy for the theatre,” said Mr. Ackerman.

“Of course,” said Peter. “Well, I dunno whether she’d be willing to do it; she don’t like having me mix up with these Reds, and she’s been begging me to quit for a long time, and I’d just about promised her I would. But if I tell her about your trouble maybe she might, just as a favor.”

But how could Peter’s wife be introduced into the Ackerman household without attracting suspicion? Peter raised this question, pointing out that his wife was a person of too high a social class to come as a servant. Mr. Ackerman added that he had nothing to do with engaging his servants, any more than with engaging the bookkeepers in his bank. It would look suspicious for him to make a suggestion to his housekeeper. But finally he remarked that he had a niece who sometimes came to visit him, and would come at once if requested, and would bring Edythe Eustace as her maid. Peter was sure that Edythe would be able to learn this part quickly, she had acted it many times on the stage, in fact, it had been her favorite role. Mr. Ackerman promised to get word to his niece, and have her meet Edythe at the Hotel de Soto that same afternoon.

Then the old banker pledged his word most solemnly that he would not whisper a hint about this matter except to his niece. Peter was most urgent and emphatic; he specified that the police were not to be told, that no member of the household was to be told, not even Mr. Ackerman’s private secretary. After Mr. Ackerman had had this duly impressed upon him, he proceeded in turn to impress upon Peter the idea which he considered of most importance in the world: “I don’t want to be killed, Gudge, I tell you I don’t want to be killed!” And Peter solemnly promised to make it his business to listen to all conversations of the Reds in so far as they might bear upon Mr. Ackerman.

When he rose to take his departure, Mr. Ackerman slipped his trembling fingers into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a crisp and shiny note. He unfolded it, and Peter saw that it was a five hundred dollar bill, fresh from the First National Bank of American City, of which Mr. Ackerman was chairman of the board of directors. “Here’s a little present for you, Gudge,” he said. “I want you to understand that if you protect me from these villains, I’ll see that you are well taken care of. From now on I want you to be my man.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter, “I’ll be it, sir. I thank you very much, sir.” And he thrust the bill into his pocket, and bowed himself step by step backwards toward the door. “You’re forgetting your hat,” said the banker.

“Why, yes,” said the trembling Peter, and he came forward again, and got his hat from under the chair, and bowed himself backward again.

“And remember, Gudge,” said the old man, “I don’t want to be killed! I don’t want them to get me!”

Section 54

Peter’s first care when he got back into the city was to go to Mr. Ackerman’s bank and change that five hundred dollar bill. The cashier gazed at him sternly, and scrutinized the bill carefully, but he gave Peter five one hundred dollar bills without comment. Peter tucked three of them away in a safe hiding-place, and put the other two in his pocketbook, and went to keep his appointment with Nell.

He told her all that had happened, and where she was to meet Mr. Ackerman’s niece. “What did he give you?” Nell demanded, at once, and when Peter produced the two bills, she exclaimed, “My God! the old skint-flint!” “He said there’d be more,” remarked Peter.

“It didn’t cost him anything to say that,” was Nell’s answer. “We’ll have to put the screws on him.” Then she added, “You’d better let me take care of this money for you, Peter.”

“Well,” said Peter, “I have to have some for my own expenses, you know.”

“You’ve got your salary, haven’t you?”

“Yes, that’s true, but--”

“I can keep it safe for you,” said Nell, “and some day when you need it you’ll be glad to have it. You’ve never saved anything yourself; that’s a woman’s job.”

Peter tried to haggle with her, but it wasn’t the same as haggling with McGivney; she looked at him with her melting glances, and it made Peter’s head swim, and automatically he put out his hand and let her take the two bills. Then she smiled, so tenderly that he made bold to remind her, “You know, Nell, you’re my wife now!”

“Yes, yes,” she answered, “of course. But we’ve got to get rid of Ted Crothers somehow. He watches me all the time, and I have no end of trouble making excuses and getting away.”

“How’re you’re going to get rid of him?” asked Peter, hungrily.

“We’ll have to skip,” she answered; “just as soon as we have pulled off our new frame-up--”

“Another one?” gasped Peter, in dismay.

And the girl laughed. “You wait!” she said. “I’m going to pull some real money out of Nelse Ackerman this time! Then when we’ve made our killing, we’ll skip, and be fixed for life. You wait--and don’t talk love to me now, because my mind is all taken up with my plans, and I can’t think about anything else.”

So they parted, and Peter went to see McGivney in the American House. “Stand up to him!” Nell had said. But it was not easy to do, for McGivney pulled and hauled him and turned him about, upside down and inside outwards, to know every single thing that had happened between him and Nelse Ackerman. Lord, how these fellows did hang on to their sources of graft! Peter repeated and insisted that he really had played entirely fair--he hadn’t told Nelse Ackerman a thing except just the truth as he had told it to Guffey and McGivney. He had said that the police were all right, and that Guffey’s bureau was stepping right on the tail of the Reds all the time.

“And what does he want you to do?” demanded the rat-faced man.

Peter answered, “He just wanted to make sure that he was learning everything of importance, and he wanted me to promise him that he would get every scrap of information that I collected about the plot against him; and of course I promised him that we’d bring it all to him.”

“You going to see him any more?” demanded McGivney.

“He didn’t say anything about that.”

“Did he get your address?”

“No, I suppose if he wants me he’ll let you know, the same as before.”

“All right,” said McGivney. “Did he give you any money?”

“Yes,” said Peter, “he gave me two hundred dollars, and he said there was plenty more where that came from, so that we’d work hard to help him. He said he didn’t want to get killed; he said that a couple of dozen times, I guess. He spent more time saying that than anything else. He’s sick, and he’s scared out of his wits.”

So at last McGivney condescended to thank Peter for his faithfulness, and went on to give him further orders.

The Reds were raising an awful howl. Andrews, the lawyer, had succeeded in getting a court order to see the arrested men, and of course the prisoners had all declared that the case was a put-up job. Now the Reds were preparing to send out a circular to their fellow Reds all over the country, appealing for publicity, and for funds to fight the “frame-up.”

They were very secret about it, and McGivney wanted to know where they were getting their money. He wanted a copy of the circular they were printing, and to know where and when the circulars were to be mailed. Guffey had been to see the post office authorities, and they were going to confiscate the circulars and destroy them all without letting the Reds know it.

Peter rubbed his hands with glee. That was the real business! That was going after these criminals in the way Peter had been urging! The rat-faced man answered that it was nothing to what they were going to do in a few days. Let Peter keep on his job, and he would see! Now, when the public was wrought up over this dynamite conspiracy, was the time to get things done.

Section 55

Peter took a street car to the home of Miriam Yankovitch, and on the way he read the afternoon edition of the American City “Times.” The editors of this paper were certainly after the Reds, and no mistake! They had taken McCormick’s book on Sabotage, just as Nell had predicted, and printed whole chapters from it, with the most menacing sentences in big type, and some boxed up in little frames and scattered here and there over the page so that no one could possibly miss them. They had a picture of McCormick taken in the jail; he hadn’t had a chance to shave for several days, and probably hadn’t felt pleasant about having his picture taken--anyhow, he looked ferocious enough to frighten the most skeptical, and Peter was confirmed in his opinion that Mac was the most dangerous Red of them all.

Columns and columns of material this paper published about the case, subtly linking it up with all the other dynamitings and assassinations in American history, and with German spy plots and bomb plots. There was a nation-wide organization of these assassins, so the paper said; they published hundreds of papers, with millions of readers, all financed by German gold. Also, there was a double-leaded editorial calling on the citizens to arise and save the republic, and put an end to the Red menace once for all. Peter read this, and like every other good American, he believed every word that he read in his newspaper, and boiled with hatred of the Reds.

He found Miriam Yankovitch away from home. Her mother was in a state of excitement, because Miriam had got word that the police were giving the prisoners the “third degree,” and she had gone to the offices of the Peoples’ Council to get the radicals together and try to take some immediate action. So Peter hurried over to these offices, where he found some twenty-five Reds and Pacifists assembled, all in the same state of excitement. Miriam was walking up and down the room, clasping and unclasping her hands, and her eyes looked as if she had been crying all day. Peter remembered his suspicion that Miriam and Mac were lovers. He questioned her. They had put Mac in the “hole,” and Henderson, the lumber-jack, was laid up in the hospital as a result of the ordeal he had undergone.

The Jewish girl went into details, and Peter found himself shuddering--he had such a vivid memory of the third degree himself! He did not try to stop his shuddering, but took to pacing up and down the room like Miriam, and told them how it felt to have your wrists twisted and your fingers bent backward, and how damp and horrible it was in the “hole.” So he helped to work them into a state of hysteria, hoping that they would commit some overt action, as McGivney wanted. Why not storm the jail and set free the prisoners?

Little Ada Ruth said that was nonsense; but might they not get banners, and parade up and down in front of the jail, protesting against this torturing of men who had not been convicted of any crime? The police would fall on them, of course, the crowds would mob them and probably tear them to pieces, but they must do something. Donald Gordon answered that this would only make them impotent to keep up the agitation. What they must try to get was a strike of labor. They must send telegrams to the radical press, and go out and raise money, and call a mass-meeting three days from date. Also, they must appeal to all the labor unions, and see if it was possible to work up sentiment for a general strike.

Peter, somewhat disappointed, went back and reported to McGivney this rather tame outcome. But McGivney said that was all right, he had something that would fix them; and he revealed to Peter a startling bit of news. Peter had been reading in the papers about German spies, but he had only half taken it seriously; the war was a long way off, and Peter had never seen any of that German gold that they talked so much about--in fact, the Reds were in a state of perpetual poverty, one and all of them stinting himself eternally to put up some portion of his scant earnings to pay for pamphlets and circulars and postage and defence funds, and all the expenses of an

## active propaganda organization. But now, McGivney declared, there

was a real, sure-enough agent of the Kaiser in American City! The government had pretty nearly got him in his nets, and one of the things McGivney wanted to do before the fellow was arrested was to get him to contribute some money to the radical cause.

It wasn’t necessary to point out to Peter the importance of this. If the authorities could show that the agitation on behalf of McCormick and the rest had been financed by German money, the public would justify any measures taken to bring it to an end. Could Peter suggest to McGivney the name of a German Socialist who might be persuaded to approach this agent of the Kaiser, and get him to contribute money for the purpose of having a general strike called in American City? Several of the city’s big manufacturing plants were being made over for war purposes, and obviously the enemy had much to gain by strikes and labor discontent. Guffey’s men had been trying for a long time to get Germans to contribute to the Goober Defense fund, but here was an even better opportunity.

Peter thought of Comrade Apfel, who was one of the extreme Socialists, and a temporary Pacifist like most Germans. Apfel worked in a bakery, and his face was as pasty as the dough he kneaded, but it would show a tinge of color when he rose in the local to denounce the “social patriots,” those party members who were lending their aid to British plans for world domination. McGivney said he would send somebody to Apfel at once, and give him the name of the Kaiser’s agent as one who might be induced to contribute to the radical defense fund. Apfel would, of course, have no idea that the man was a German agent; he would go to see him, and ask him for money, and McGivney and his fellow-sleuths would do the rest. Peter said that was fine, and offered to go to Apfel himself; but the rat-faced man answered no, Peter was too precious, and no chance must be taken of directing Apfel’s suspicions against him.

Section 56

Peter had received a brief scrawl from Nell, telling him that it was all right, she had gone to her new job, and would soon have results. So Peter went cheerfully about his own duties of trying to hold down the protest campaign of the radicals. It was really quite terrifying, the success they were having, in spite of all the best efforts of the authorities. Bundles of circulars appeared at their gatherings as if by magic, and were carried away and distributed before the authorities could make any move. Every night at the Labor Temple, where the workers gathered, there were agitators howling their heads off about the McCormick case. To make matters worse, there was an obscure one cent evening paper in American City which catered to working-class readers, and persisted in publishing evidence tending to prove that the case was a “frame-up.” The Reds had found out that their mail was being interfered with, and were raising a terrific howl about that--pretending, of course, that it was “free speech” they cared about!

The mass meeting was due for that evening, and Peter read an indignant editorial in the American City “Times,” calling upon the authorities to suppress it. “Down with the Red Flag!” the editorial was headed; and Peter couldn’t see how any red-blooded, 100% American could read it, and not be moved to do something.