Chapter 16
Bearing down on him was a man; possibly he was not an abnormally big man, but certainly he looked so to Peter. His smooth-shaven face was pink with anger, his brows gathered in a terrible frown, and his hands clenched with deadly significance. “You dirty little skunk!” he hissed. “You infernal young sneak!”
“John!” cried Mrs. Godd, imperiously; but she might as well have cried to an advancing thunder-storm. The man made a leap upon Peter, and Peter, who had dodged many hundreds of blows in his lifetime, rolled off the lounging chair, and leaped to his feet, and started for the stairs of the veranda. The man was right behind him, and as Peter reached the first stair the man’s foot shot out, and caught Peter fairly in the seat of his trousers, and the first stair was the only one of the ten or twelve stairs of the veranda that Peter touched in his descent.
Landing at the bottom, he did not stop even for a glance; he could hear the snorting of Mr. Godd, it seemed right behind his ear, and Peter ran down the driveway as he had seldom run in his life before. Every now and then Mr. Godd would shoot out another kick, but he had to stop slightly to do this, and Peter gained just enough to keep the kicks from reaching him. So at last the pursuer gave up, and Peter dashed thru the gates of the Godd estate and onto the main highway.
Then he looked over his shoulder, and seeing that Mr. Godd was a safe distance away, he stopped and turned and shook his clenched fist with the menace of a street-rat, shrieking, “Damn you! Damn you!” A whirlwind of impotent rage laid hold upon him. He shouted more curses and menaces, and among them some strange, some almost incredible words. “Yes, I’m a Red, damn your soul, and I’ll stay a Red!”
Yes, Peter Gudge, the friend of law and order, Peter Gudge, the little brother to the rich, shouted, “I’m a Red, and what’s more, we’ll blow you up some day for this--Mac and me’ll put a bomb under you!” Mr. Godd turned and stalked with contemptuous dignity back to his own private domestic controversy.
Peter walked off down the road, rubbing his sore trousers and sobbing to himself. Yes, Peter understood now exactly how the Reds felt. Here were these rich parasites, exploiting the labor of working men and living off in palaces by themselves--and what had they done to earn it? What would they ever do for the poor man, except to despise him, and to kick him in the seat of his trousers? They were a set of wilful brutes! Peter suddenly saw the happenings of last night from a new angle, and wished he had all the younger members of the Chamber of Commerce and the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Association right there along with Mr. Godd, so that he could bundle them all off to the devil at once.
And that was no passing mood either. The seat of Peter’s trousers hurt so that he could hardly endure the trolley ride home, and all the way Peter was plotting how he could punish Mr. Godd. He remembered suddenly that Mr. Godd was an associate of Nelse Ackerman; and Peter now had a spy in Nelse Ackerman’s home, and was preparing some kind of a “frame-up!” Peter would see if he couldn’t find some way to start a dynamite conspiracy against Mr. Godd! He would start a campaign against Mr. Godd in the radical movement, and maybe he could find some way to get a bunch of the “wobblies” to carry him off and tie him up and beat him with a black-snake whip!
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With these reflections Peter went back to the American House, where McGivney had promised to meet him that evening. Peter went to Room 427, and being tired after the previous night’s excitement, he lay down and fell fast asleep. And when again he opened his eyes, he wasn’t sure whether it was a nightmare, or whether he had died in his sleep and gone to hell with Mr. Godd. Somebody was shaking him, and bidding him in a gruff voice, “Wake up!” Peter opened his eyes, and saw that it was McGivney; and that was all right, it was natural that McGivney should be waking him up. But what was this? McGivney’s voice was angry, McGivney’s face was dark and glowering, and--most incredible circumstance of all--McGivney had a revolver in his hand, and was pointing it into Peter’s face!
It really made it much harder for Peter to get awake, because he couldn’t believe that he was awake; also it made it harder for McGivney to get any sense out of him, because his jaw hung down, and he stared with terrified eyes into the muzzle of the revolver.
“M-m-my God, Mr. McGivney! w-w-what’s the matter?”
“Get up here!” hissed the rat-faced man, and he added a vile name. He gripped Peter by the lapel of his coat and half jerked him to his feet, still keeping the muzzle of the revolver in Peter’s face. And poor Peter, trying desperately to get his wits together, thought of half a dozen wild guesses one after another. Could it be that McGivney had heard him denouncing Mr. Godd and proclaiming himself a Red? Could it be that some of the Reds had framed up something on Peter? Could it be that McGivney had gone just plain crazy; that Peter was in the room with a maniac armed with a revolver?
“Where did you put that money I gave you the other day;” demanded McGivney, and added some more vile names.
Instantly, of course, Peter was on the defensive. No matter how frightened he might be, Peter would never fail to hang on to his money.
“I-I s-s-spent it, Mr. McGivney.”
“You’re lying to me!”
“N-n-no.”
“Tell me where you put that money!” insisted the man, and his face was ugly with anger, and the muzzle of the revolver seemed to be trembling with anger. Peter started to insist that he had spent every cent. “Make him cough up, Hammett!” said McGivney; and Peter for the first time realized that there was another man in the room. His eyes had been so fascinated by the muzzle of the revolver that he hadn’t taken a glance about.
Hammett was a big fellow, and he strode up to Peter and grabbed one of Peter’s arms, and twisted it around behind Peter’s back and up between Peter’s shoulders. When Peter started to scream, Hammett clapped his other hand over his mouth, and so Peter knew that it was all up. He could not hold on to money at that cost. When McGivney asked him, “Will you tell me where it is?” Peter nodded, and tried to answer thru his nose.
So Hammett took his hand from his mouth. “Where is it?” And Peter replied, “In my right shoe.”
Hammett unlaced the shoe and took it off, and pulled out the inside sole, and underneath was a little flat package wrapped in tissue paper, and inside the tissue paper was the thousand dollars that McGivney had given Peter, and also the three hundred dollars which Peter had saved from Nelse Ackerman’s present, and two hundred dollars which he had saved from his salary. Hammett counted the money, and McGivney stuck it into his pocket, and then he commanded Peter to put on his shoe again. Peter obeyed with his trembling fingers, meantime keeping his eye in part on the revolver and in part on the face of the rat.
“W-w-what’s the matter, Mr. McGivney?”
“You’ll find out in time,” was the answer. “Now, you march downstairs, and remember, I’ve got this gun on you, and there’s eight bullets in it, and if you move a finger I’ll put them all into you.”
So Peter and McGivney and Hammett went down in the elevator of the hotel, and out of doors, and into an automobile. Hammett drove, and Peter sat in the rear seat with McGivney, who had the revolver in his coat pocket, his finger always on the trigger and the muzzle always pointed into Peter’s middle. So Peter obeyed all orders promptly, and stopped asking questions because he found he could get no answers.
Meantime he was using his terrified wits on the problem. The best guess he could make was that Guffey had decided to believe Joe Angell’s story instead of Peter’s. But then, why all this gun-play, this movie stuff? Peter gave up in despair; and it was just as well, for what had happened lay entirely beyond the guessing power of Peter’s mind or any other mind.
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They went to the office of the secret service department of the Traction Trust, a place where Peter had never been allowed to come hitherto. It was on the fourteenth floor of the Merchant’s Trust Building, and the sign on the door read: “The American City Land & Investment Company. Walk In.” When you walked in, you saw a conventional real estate office, and it was only when you had penetrated several doors that you came to the secret rooms where Guffey and his staff conducted the espionage work of the big business interests of the city.
Peter was hustled into one of these rooms, and there stood Guffey; and the instant Guffey saw him, he bore down upon him, shaking his fist. “You stinking puppy!” he exclaimed. “You miserable little whelp! You dirty, sneaking hound!” He added a number of other descriptive phrases taken from the vocabulary of the kennel.
Peter’s knees were shaking, his teeth were chattering, and he watched every motion of Guffey’s angry fingers, and every grimace of Guffey’s angry features. Peter had been fully prepared for the most horrible torture he had experienced yet; but gradually he realized that he wasn’t going to be tortured, he was only going to be scolded and raged at, and no words could describe the wave of relief in his soul. In the course of his street-rat’s life Peter had been called more names than Guffey could think of if he spent the next month trying. If all Guffey was going to do was to pace up and down the room, and shake his fist under Peter’s nose every time he passed him, and compare him with every kind of a domestic animal, Peter could stand it all night without a murmur.
He stopped trying to find out what it was that had happened, because he saw that this only drove Guffey to fresh fits of exasperation. Guffey didn’t want to talk to Peter, he didn’t want to hear the sound of Peter’s whining gutter-pup’s voice. All he wanted was to pour out his rage, and have Peter listen in abject abasement, and this Peter did. But meantime, of course, Peter’s wits were working at high speed, he was trying to pick up hints as to what the devil it could mean. One thing was quite clear--the damage, whatever it was, was done; the jig was up, it was all over but the funeral. They had taken Peter’s money to pay for the funeral, and that was all they hoped to get out of him.
Gradually came other hints. “So you thought you were going into business on your own!” snarled Guffey, and his fist, which was under Peter’s nose, gave an upward poke that almost dislocated Peter’s neck.
“Aha!” thought Peter. “Nelse Ackerman has given me away!”
“You thought you were going to make your fortune and retire for life on your income!”
Yes, that was it, surely! But what could Nelse Ackerman have told that was so very bad?
“You were going to have a spy of your own, set up your own bureau, and kick me out, perhaps!”
“My God!” thought Peter. “Who told that?”
Then suddenly Guffey stopped in front of him. “Was that what you thought?” he demanded. He repeated the question, and it appeared that he really wanted an answer, and so Peter stammered, “N-n-no, sir.” But evidently the answer didn’t suit Guffey, for he grabbed Peter’s nose and gave it a tweak that brought the tears into his eyes.
“What was it then?” A nasty sneer came on the head detective’s face, and he laughed at Peter with a laugh of venomous contempt. “I suppose you thought she really loved you! Was it that? You thought she really loved you?” And McGivney and Hammett and Guffey ha-ha-ed together, and to Peter it seemed like the mockery of demons in the undermost pit of hell. Those words brought every pillar of Peter’s dream castle tumbling in ruins about his ears. Guffey had found out about Nell!
Again and again on the automobile ride to Guffey’s office Peter had reminded himself of Nell’s command, “Stick it out, Peter! Stick it out!” He had meant to stick it out in spite of everything; but now in a flash he saw that all was lost. How could he stick it out when they knew about Nell, and when Nell, herself, was no longer sticking it out?
Guffey saw these thoughts plainly written in Peter’s face, and his sneer turned into a snarl. “So you think you’ll tell me the truth now, do you? Well, it happens there’s nothing left to tell!”
Again he turned and began pacing up and down the room. The pressure of rage inside him was so great that it took still more time to work it off. But finally the head detective sat down at his desk, and opened the drawer and took out a paper. “I see you’re sitting there, trying to think up some new lie to tell me,” said he. And Peter did not try to deny it, because any kind of denial only caused a fresh access of rage. “All right,” Guffey said, “I’ll read you this, and you can see just where you stand, and just how many kinds of a boob you are.”
So he started to read the letter; and before Peter had heard one sentence, he knew this was a letter from Nell, and he knew that the castle of his dreams was flat in the dust forever. The ruins of Sargon and Nineveh were not more hopelessly flat!
“Dear Mr. Guffey,” read the letter, “I am sorry to throw you down, but fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, and we all get tired of work and need a rest. This is to tell you that Ted Crothers has just broke into Nelse Ackerman’s safe in his home, and we have got some liberty bonds and some jewels which we guess to be worth fifty thousand dollars, and you know Ted is a good judge of jewels.
“Now of course you will find out that I was working in Mr. Ackerman’s home and you will be after me hot-foot, so I might as well tell you about it, and tell you it won’t do you any good to catch us, because we have got all the inside dope on the Goober frame-up, and everything else your bureau has been pulling off in American City for the last year. You can ask Peter Gudge and he’ll tell you. It was Peter and me that fixed up that dynamite conspiracy, but you mustn’t blame Peter, because he only did what I told him to do. He hasn’t got sense enough to be really dangerous, and he will make you a perfectly good agent if you treat him kind and keep him away from the women. You can do that easy enough if you don’t let him get any money, because of course he’s nothing much on looks, and the women would never bother with him if you didn’t pay him too much.
“Now Peter will tell you how we framed up that dynamite job, and of course you wouldn’t want that to get known to the Reds, and you may be sure that if Ted and me get pinched, we’ll find some way to let the Reds know all about it. If you keep quiet we’ll never say a word, and you’ve got a perfectly good dynamite conspiracy, with all the evidence you need to put the Reds out of business, and you can just figure it cost you fifty thousand dollars, and it was cheap at the price, because Nelse Ackerman has paid a whole lot more for your work, and you never got anything half as big as this. I know you’ll be mad when you read this, but think it over and keep your shirt on. I send it to you by messenger so you can get hold of Nelse Ackerman right quick, and have him not say anything to the police; because you know how it is--if those babies find it out, it will get to the Reds and the newspapers, and it’ll be all over town and do a lot of harm to your frame-up. And you know after those Reds have got beaten up and Shawn Grady lynched, you wouldn’t like to have any rumor get out that that dynamite was planted by your own people. Ted and me will keep out of sight, and we won’t sell the jewels for a while, and everything will be all right.
“Yours respectfully,
“Edythe.
“P. S. It really ain’t Peter’s fault that he’s silly about women, and he would have worked for you all right if it hadn’t been for my good looks!”
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So there it was. When Peter had heard this letter, he understood that there was no more to be said, and he said it. His own weight had suddenly become more than he could support, and he saw a chair nearby and slipped into it, and sat with eyes of abject misery roaming from Guffey to McGivney, and from McGivney to Hammett, and then back to Guffey again.
The head detective, for all his anger, was a practical man; he could not have managed the very important and confidential work of the Traction Trust if he had not been. So now he proceeded to get down to business. Peter would please tell him everything about that dynamite frame-up; just how they had managed it and just who knew about it. And Peter, being also a practical man, knew that there was no use trying to hide anything. He told the story from beginning to end, taking particular pains to make clear that he and Nell alone were in the secret---except that beyond doubt Nell had told her lover, Ted Crothers. It was probably Crothers that got the dynamite. From the conversation that ensued Peter gathered that this young man with the face of a bull-dog was one of the very fanciest safecrackers in the country, and no doubt he was the real brains of the conspiracy; he had put Nell up to it, and managed every step. Suddenly Peter remembered all the kisses which Nell had given him in the park, and he found a blush of shame stealing over him. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he was a boob where women were concerned!
Peter began to plead for himself, Really it wasn’t his fault because Nell had got a hold on him. In the Temple of Jimjambo, when he was only a kid, he had been desperately in love with her. She was not only beautiful, she was so smart; she was the smartest woman he had ever known. McGivney remarked that she had been playing with Peter even then--she had been in Guffey’s pay at that time, collecting evidence to put Pashtian el Kalandra in jail and break up the cult of Eleutherinian Exoticism. She had done many such jobs for the secret service of the Traction Trust, while Peter was still traveling around with Pericles Priam selling patent medicine. Nell had been used by Guffey to seduce a prominent labor leader in American City; she had got him caught in a hotel room with her, and thus had broken the back of the biggest labor strike ever known in the city’s history.
Peter felt suddenly that he had a good defense. Of course a woman like that had been too much for him! It was Guffey’s own fault if he hired people like that and turned them loose! It suddenly dawned on Peter--Nell must have found out that he, Peter, was going to meet young Lackman in the Hotel de Soto, and she must have gone there deliberately to ensnare him. When McGivney admitted that that was possibly true, Peter felt that he had a case, and proceeded to urge it with eloquence. He had been a fool, of course, every kind of fool there was, and he hadn’t a word to say for himself; but he had learned his lesson and learned it thoroughly. No more women for him, and no more high life, and if Mr. Guffey would give him another chance--
Guffey, of course, snorted at him. He wouldn’t have a pudding-head like Peter Gudge within ten miles of his office! But Peter only pleaded the more abjectly. He really did know the Reds thoroughly, and where could Mr. Guffey find anybody that knew them as well? The Reds all trusted him; he was a real martyr--look at the plasters all over him now! And he had just added another Red laurel to his brow--he had been to see Mrs. Godd, and had had the seat of his trousers kicked by Mr. Godd, and of course he could tell that story, and maybe he could catch some Reds in a conspiracy against Mr. Godd. Anyhow, they had that perfectly good case against McCormick and the rest of the I. W. Ws. And now that things had gone so far, surely they couldn’t back down on that case! All that was necessary was to explain matters to Mr. Ackerman--
Peter realized that this was an unfortunate remark. Guffey was on his feet again, pacing up and down the room, calling Peter the names of all the barnyard animals, and incidentally revealing that he had already had an interview with Mr. Ackerman, and that Mr. Ackerman was not disposed to receive amicably the news that the secret service bureau which he had been financing, and which was supposed to be protecting him, had been the means of introducing into his home a couple of high-class criminals who had cracked his safe and made off with jewels that they guessed were worth fifty thousand dollars, but that Mr. Ackerman claimed were worth eighty-five thousand dollars. Peter was informed that he might thank his lucky stars that Guffey didn’t shut him in the hole for the balance of his life, or take him into a dungeon and pull him to pieces inch by inch. As it was, all he had to do was to get himself out of Guffey’s office, and take himself to hell by the quickest route he could find. “Go on!” said Guffey. “I mean it, get out!”
And so Peter got to his feet and started unsteadily toward the door. He was thinking to himself: “Shall I threaten them? Shall I say I’ll go over to the Reds and tell what I know?” No, he had better not do that; the least hint of that might cause Guffey to put him in the hole! But then, how was it possible for Guffey to let him go, to take a chance of his telling? Right now, Guffey must be thinking to himself that Peter might go away, and in a fit of rage or of despair might let out the truth to one of the Reds, and then everything would be ruined forever. No, surely Guffey would not take such a chance! Peter walked very slowly to the door, he opened the door reluctantly, he stood there, holding on as if he were too weak to keep his balance; he waited--waited--
And sure enough, Guffey spoke. “Come back here, you mut!” And Peter turned and started towards the head detective, stretching out his hands in a gesture of submission; if it had been in an Eastern country, he would have fallen on his knees and struck his forehead three times in the dust. “Please, please, Mr. Guffey!” he wailed. “Give me another chance!”
“If I put you to work again,” snarled Guffey, “will you do what I tell you, and not what you want to do yourself?”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Guffey.”
“You’ll do no more frame-ups but my frame-ups?”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Guffey.”
“All right, then, I’ll give you one more chance. But by God, if I find you so much as winking at another girl, I’ll pull your eye teeth out!”
And Peter’s heart leaped with relief. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. Guffey!”
“I’ll pay you twenty dollars a week, and no more,” said Guffey. “You’re worth more, but I can’t trust you with money, and you can take it or leave it.”
“That’ll be perfectly satisfactory, Mr. Guffey,” said Peter.
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So there was the end of high life for Peter Gudge. He moved no more in the celestial circles of Mount Olympus. He never again saw the Chinese butler of Mr. Ackerman, nor the French parlor-maid of Mrs. Godd. He would no more be smiled at by the two hundred and twenty-four boy angels of the ceiling of the Hotel de Soto lobby. Peter would eat his meals now seated on a stool in front of a lunch counter, he would really be the humble proletarian, the “Jimmie Higgins” of his role. He put behind him bright dreams of an accumulated competence, and settled down to the hard day’s work of cultivating the acquaintance of agitators, visiting their homes and watching their activities, getting samples of the literature they were circulating, stealing their letters and address-books and note-books, and taking all these to Room 427 of the American House.