There were many exclamations over this, and Peter had time to think
before the company turned upon him again. The Chief of Police now
questioned him, and then the deputy of the district attorney
questioned him; still he stuck to his story. "My God!" he cried.
"Would you think I'd be mad enough to frame up a job like this?
Where'd I get all that stuff? Where'd I get that dynamite?"--Peter
almost bit off his tongue as he realized the dreadful slip he had
made. No one had ever told him that the suit-case actually contained
dynamite! How had he known there was dynamite in it? He was
desperately trying to think of some way he could have heard; but, as
it happened, no one of the five men caught him up. They all knew
that there was dynamite in the suit-case; they knew it with
overwhelming and tremendous certainty, and they overlooked entirely
the fact that Peter wasn't supposed to know it. So close to the edge
of ruin can a man come and yet escape!

Peter made haste to get away from that danger-spot. "Does Joe Angell
deny that he was whispering to Jerry Rudd?"

"He doesn't remember that," said Guffey. "He may have talked with
him apart, but nothing special, there wasn't any conspiracy."

"Does he deny that he talked about dynamite?"

"They may have talked about it in the general discussion, but he
didn't whisper anything."

"But I heard him!" cried Peter, whose quick wits had thought up a
way of escape, "I know what I heard! It was just before they were
leaving, and somebody had turned out some of the lights. He was
standing with his back to me, and I went over to the book-case right
behind him."

Here the deputy district attorney put in. He was a young man, a
trifle easier to fool than the others. "Are you sure it was Joe
Angell?" he demanded.

"My God! Of course it was!" said Peter. "I couldn't have been
mistaken." But he let his voice die away, and a note of bewilderment
be heard in it.

"You say he was whispering?"

"Yes, he was whispering."

"But mightn't it have been somebody else?"

"Why, I don't know what to say," said Peter. "I thought for sure it
was Joe Angell; but I had my back turned, I'd been talking to Grady,
the secretary, and then I turned around and moved over to the
book-case."

"How many men were there in the room?"

"About twenty, I guess."

"Were the lights turned off before you turned around, or after?"

"I don't remember that; it might have been after." And suddenly poor
bewildered Peter cried: "It makes me feel like a fool. Of course I
ought to have talked to the fellow, and made sure it was Joe Angell
before I turned away again; but I thought sure it was him. The idea
it could be anybody else never crossed my mind."

"But you're sure it was Jerry Rudd that was talking to him?"

"Yes, it was Jerry Rudd, because his face was toward me."

"Was it Rudd or was it the other fellow that made the reply about
the `sab-cat'?" And then Peter was bewildered and tied himself up,
and led them into a long process of cross-questioning; and in the
middle of it came the detective, bringing the book on sabotage with
McCormick's name written in the fly-leaf, and with the ground plan
of a house between the pages.

They all crowded around to look at the plan, and the idea occurred
to several of them at once: Could it be Nelse Ackerman's house? The
Chief of Police turned to his phone, and called up the great
banker's secretary. Would he please describe Mr. Ackerman's house;
and the chief listened to the description. "There's a cross mark on
this plan--the north side of the house, a little to the west of the
center. What could that be?" Then, "My God!" And then, "Will you
come down here to my office right away and bring the architect's
plan of the house so we can compare them?" The Chief turned to the
others, and said, "That cross mark in the house is the sleeping
porch on the second floor where Mr. Ackerman sleeps!"

So then they forgot for a while their doubts about Peter. It was
fascinating, this work of tracing out the details of the conspiracy,
and fitting them together like a picture puzzle. It seemed quite
certain to all of them that this insignificant and scared little man
whom they had been examining could never have prepared so ingenious
and intricate a design. No, it must really be that some master mind,
some devilish intriguer was at work to spread red ruin in American
City!






Section 48





They dismissed Peter for the present, sending him back to his cell.
He stayed there for two days with no one to advise him, and no hint
as to his fate. They did not allow newspapers in the jail, but they
had left Peter his money, and so on the second day he succeeded in
bribing one of his keepers and obtaining a copy of the American City
"Times," with all the details of the amazing sensation spread out on
the front page.

For thirty years the "Times" had been standing for law and order
against all the forces of red riot and revolution; for thirty years
the "Times" had been declaring that labor leaders and walking
delegates and Socialists and Anarchists were all one and the same
thing, and all placed their reliance fundamentally upon one
instrument, the dynamite bomb. Here at last the "Times" was
vindicated, this was the "Times" great day! They had made the most
of it, not merely on the front page, but on two other pages, with
pictures of all the conspicuous conspirators, including Peter, and
pictures of the I. W. W. headquarters, and the suit-case, and the
sticks of dynamite and the fuses and the clock; also of the "studio"
in which the Reds had been trapped, and of Nikitin, the Russian
anarchist who owned this den. Also there were columns of speculation
about the case, signed statements and interviews with leading
clergymen and bankers, the president of the Chamber of Commerce and
the secretary of the Real Estate Exchange. Also there was a
two-column, double-leaded editorial, pointing out how the "Times"
had been saying this for thirty years, and not failing to connect up
the case with the Goober case, and the Lackman case, and the case of
three pacifist clergymen who had been arrested several days before
for attempting to read the Sermon on the Mount at a public meeting.

And Peter knew that he, Peter Gudge, had done all this! The forces
of law and order owed it all to one obscure little secret service
agent! Peter would get no credit, of course; the Chief of Police and
the district attorney were issuing solemn statements, taking the
honors to themselves, and with never one hint that they owed
anything to the secret service department of the Traction Trust.
That was necessary, of course; for the sake of appearances it had to
be pretended that the public authorities were doing the work,
exercising their legal functions in due and regular form. It would
never do to have the mob suspect that these activities were being
financed and directed by the big business interests of the city. But
all the same, it made Peter sore! He and McGivney and the rest of
Guffey's men had a contempt for the public officials, whom they
regarded as "pikers"; the officials had very little money to spend,
and very little power. If you really wanted to get anything done in
America, you didn't go to any public official, you went to the big
men of affairs, the ones who had the "stuff," and were used to doing
things quickly and efficiently. It was the same in this business of
spying as in everything else.

Now and then Peter would realize how close he had come to ghastly
ruin. He would have qualms of terror, picturing himself shut up in
the hole, and Guffey proceeding to torture the truth out of him. But
he was able to calm these fears. He was sure this dynamite
conspiracy would prove too big a temptation for the authorities; it
would sweep them away in spite of themselves. They would have to go
thru with it, they would have to stand by Peter.

And sure enough, on the evening of the second day a jailer came and
said: "You're to be let out." And Peter was ushered thru the barred
doors and turned loose without another word.






Section 49





Peter went to Room 427 of the American House and there was McGivney
waiting for him. McGivney said nothing about any suspicion of Peter,
nor did Peter say anything--he understood that by-gones were to be
by-gones. The authorities were going to take this gift which the
fates had handed to them on a silver platter. For years they had
been wanting to get these Reds, and now magically and incredibly,
they had got them!

"Now, Gudge," said McGivney, "here's your story. You've been
arrested on suspicion, you've been cross-questioned and put thru the
third degree, but you succeeded in satisfying the police that you
didn't know anything about it, and they've released you. We've
released a couple of others at the same time, so's to cover you all
right; and now you're to go back and find out all you can about the
Reds, and what they're doing, and what they're planning. They're
shouting, of course, that this is a `frame-up.' You must find out
what they know. You must be careful, of course--watch every step you
take, because they'll be suspicious for a while. We've been to your
room and turned things upside down a bit, so that will help to make
it look all right."

Peter sallied forth; but he did not go to see the Reds immediately.
He spent an hour dodging about the city to make sure no one was
shadowing him; then he called up Nell at a telephone number she had
given him, and an hour later they met in the park, and she flew to
his arms and kissed him with rapturous delight. He had to tell her
everything, of course; and when she learned that Joe Angell was a
secret agent, she first stared at him in horror, and then she
laughed until she almost cried. When Peter told how he had met that
situation and got away with it, for the first time he was sure that
he had won her love.

"Now, Peter," she said, when they were calm again, we've got to get
action at once. The papers are full of it, and old Nelse Ackerman
must be scared out of his life. Here's a letter I'm going to mail
tonight--you notice I've used a different typewriter from the one I
used last time. I went into a typewriter store, and paid them to let
me use one for a few minutes, so they can never trace this letter to
me.

The letter was addressed to Nelson Ackerman at his home, and marked
"Personal." Peter read:

"This is a message from a friend. The Reds had an agent in your
home. They drew a plan of your house. The police are hiding things
from you, because they can't get the truth, and don't want you to
know they are incompetent. There is a man who discovered all this
plot, and you should see him. They won't let you see him if they can
help it. You should demand to see him. But do not mention this
letter. If you do not get to the right man, I will write you again.
If you keep this a secret, you may trust me to help you to the end.
If you tell anybody, I will be unable to help you."

"Now," said Nell, "when he gets that letter he'll get busy, and
you've got to know what to do, because of course everything depends
on that." So Nell proceeded to drill Peter for his meeting with the
King of American City. Peter now stood in such awe of her judgment
that he learned his lessons quite patiently, and promised solemnly
that he would do exactly what she said and nothing else. He reaped
his reward of kisses, and went home to sleep the sleep of the just.

Next morning Peter set out to do some of his work for McGivney, so
that McGivney would have no ground for complaint. He went to see
Miriam Yankovich, and this time Miriam caught him by his two hands
and wrung them, and Peter knew that he had atoned for his crime
against little Jennie. Peter was a martyr once more. He told how he
had been put thru the third degree; and she told how the water from
the washtub had leaked thru the ceiling, and the plaster had fallen,
and ruined the dinner of a poor workingman's family.

Also, she told him all about the frame-up as the Reds saw it.
Andrews, the lawyer, was demanding the right to see the prisoners,
but this was refused, and they were all being held without bail. On
the previous evening Miriam had attended a gathering at Andrews'
home, at which the case was talked out. All the I. W. W.'s declared
that the thing was the rankest kind of frame-up; the notes were
obviously fake, and the dynamite had undoubtedly been planted by the
police. They had used it as a pretext to shut up the I. W. W.
headquarters, and to arrest a score of radicals. Worst of all, of
course, was the propaganda; the hideous stories with which they were
filling the papers. Had Peter seen this morning's "Times?" A
perfectly unmistakable incitement to mobs to gather and lynch the
Reds!






Section 50





From Miriam's, Peter went back to Room 427. It was Nell's idea that
Nelse Ackerman would not lose a minute next morning; and sure
enough, Peter found a note on the dressing-table: "Wait for me, I
want to see you."

Peter waited, and before long McGivney came in and sat down in front
of him, and began very solemnly: "Now Peter Gudge, you know I'm your
friend."

"Yes, of course."

"I've stood by you," said McGivney. "If it hadn't been for me, the
boss would have had you in the hole right now, trying to sweat you
into confessing you planted that dynamite. I want you to know that,
and I want you to know that I'm going to stand by you, and I expect
you to stand by me and give me a square deal."

"Why, sure!" said Peter. "What is it?" Then McGivney proceeded to
explain: Old Nelse Ackerman had got the idea that the police were
holding back something from him. He was scared out of his wits about
this case, of course. He had himself shut up in a cupboard at night,
and made his wife pull down the curtains of her limousine when she
went driving. And now he was insisting that he must have a talk with
the man who had discovered this plot against him. McGivney hated to
take the risk of having Peter become acquainted with anybody, but
Nelse Ackerman was a man whose word was law. Really, he was Peter's
employer; he had put up a lot of the money for the secret service
work which Guffey was conducting, and neither Guffey or any of the
city authorities dared try to fool him.

"Well, that's all right," said Peter; "it won't hurt for me to see
him."

"He's going to question you about this case," said McGivney. "He's
going to try to find out everything he can. So you got to protect
us; you got to make him understand that we've done everything
possible. You got to put us right with him."

Peter promised solemnly he would do so; but McGivney wasn't
satisfied. He was in a state of trepidation, and proceeded to hammer
and hammer at Peter, impressing upon him the importance of
solidarity, of keeping faith with his fellows. It sounded exactly
like some of the I. W. W.'s talking among themselves!

"You may think, here's a chance to jump on us and climb out on top,
but don't you forget it, Peter Gudge, we've got a machine, and in
the long run it's the machine that wins. We've broken many a fellow
that's tried to play tricks on us, and we'll break you. Old Nelse
will get what he wants out of you; he'll offer you a big price, no
doubt--but before long he'll be thru with you, and then you'll come
back to us, and I give you fair warning, by God, if you play us
dirty, Guffey will have you in the hole in a month or two, and
you'll come out on a stretcher."

So Peter pledged his faith again; but, seeing his chance, he added:
"Don't you think Mr. Guffey ought to do something for me, because of
that plot I discovered?"

"Yes, I think that," said McGivney; "that's only fair."

And so they proceeded to bargain. Peter pointed out all the dangers
he had run, and all the credit which the others had got. Guffey
hadn't got credit in the papers, but he had got it with his
employers, all right, and he would get still more if Peter stood by
him with the king of American City. Peter said it ought to be worth
a thousand dollars, and he said he ought to have it right away,
before he went to see the king. At which Guffey scowled ferociously.
"Look here, Gudge! you got the nerve to charge us such a price for
standing by your frame-up?"

McGivney generally treated Peter as a coward and a feeble bluffer;
but he had learned also that there was one time when the little man
completely changed his nature, and that was when it was a question
of getting hold of some cash. That was the question now; and Peter
met McGivney scowl for scowl. "If you don't like my frame-up," he
snarled, "you go kick to the newspapers about it!"

Peter was the bulldog again, and had got his teeth in the other
bulldog's nose, and he hung right there. He had seen the rat-faced
man pull money out of his clothes before this, and he knew that this
time, above all other times, McGivney would come prepared. So he
insisted--a thousand or nothing; and as before, his heart went down
into his boots when McGivney produced his wad, and revealed that
there was more in the wad than Peter had demanded!

However, Peter consoled himself with the reflection that a thousand
dollars was a tidy sum of money, and he set out for the home of
Nelse Ackerman in a jovial frame of mind. Incidentally he decided
that it might be the part of wisdom not to say anything to Nell
about this extra thousand. When women found out that you had money,
they'd never rest till they had got every cent of it, or at least
had made you spend it on them!






Section 51





Nelse Ackerman's home was far out in the suburbs of the city, upon a
knoll surrounded by forest. It was a couple of miles from the
nearest trolley line, which forced Peter to take a hot walk in the
sun. Apparently the great banker, in selecting the site of his
residence, had never once thought that anybody might want to get to
it without an automobile. Peter reflected as he walked that if he
continued to move in these higher circles, he too would have to join
the motor-driving class.

About the estate there ran a great bronze fence, ten feet high, with
sharp, inhospitable spikes pointing outwards. Peter had read about
this fence a long time ago in the American City "Times"; it was so
and so many thousand yards long, and had so and so many spikes, and
had cost so and so many tens of thousands of dollars. There were big
bronze gates locked tight, and a sign that said: "Beware the dogs!"
Inside the gates were three guards carrying rifles and walking up
and down; they were a consequence of the recent dynamite conspiracy,
but Peter did not realize this, he took them for a regular
institution, and a symbol of the importance of the man he was to
visit.

He pressed a button by the side of the gate, and a lodgekeeper came
out, and Peter, according to orders, gave the name "Arthur G.
McGillicuddy." The lodge-keeper went inside and telephoned, and then
came back and opened the gate, just enough to admit Peter. "You're
to be searched," said the lodge-keeper; and Peter, who had been
arrested many times, took no offense at this procedure, but found it
one more evidence of the importance of Nelse Ackerman. The guards
went thru his pockets, and felt him all over, and then one of them
marched him up the long gravel avenue thru the forest, climbed a
flight of marble steps to the palace on the knoll, and turned him
over to a Chinese butler who walked on padded slippers.

If Peter had not known that this was a private home he would have
thought it was an art gallery. There were great marble columns, and
paintings bigger than Peter, and tapestries with life-size horses;
there were men in armor, and battle axes and Japanese dancing
devils, and many other strange sights. Ordinarily Peter would have
been interested in learning how a great millionaire decorated his
house, and would have drunk deep of the joy of being amid such
luxury. But now all his thoughts were taken up with his dangerous
business. Nell had told him what to look for, and he looked.
Mounting the velvet-carpeted staircase, he noted a curtain behind
which a man might hide, and a painting of a Spanish cavalier on the
wall just opposite. He would make use of these two sights.

They went down a hall, like a corridor in the Hotel de Soto, and at
the end of it the butler tapped softly upon a door, and Peter was
ushered into a big apartment in semi-darkness. The butler retired
without a sound, closing the door behind him and Peter stood
hesitating, looking about to get his bearings. From the other side
of the room he heard three faint coughs, suggesting a sick man.
There was a four-poster bed of some dark wood, with a canopy over it
and draperies at the side, and a man in the bed, sitting propped up
with pillows. There were more coughs, and then a faint whisper,
"This way." So Peter crossed over and stood about ten feet from the
bed, holding his hat in his hands; he was not able to see very much
of the occupant of the bed, nor was he sure it would be respectful
for him to try to see.

"So you're--(cough) what's your name?"

"Gudge," said Peter.

"You are the man--(cough) that knows about the Reds?"

"Yes, sir."

The occupant of the bed coughed every two or three minutes thru the
conversation that followed, and each time Peter noticed that he put
his hand up to his mouth as if he were ashamed of the noise.
Gradually Peter got used to the twilight, and could see that Nelse
Ackerman was an old man with puffy, droopy cheeks and chin, and dark
puffy crescents under his eyes. He was quite bald, and had on his
head a skull cap of embroidered black silk, and a short, embroidered
jacket over his night shirt. Beside the bed stood a table covered
with glasses and bottles and pill-boxes, and also a telephone. Every
few minutes this telephone would ring, and Peter would wait
patiently while Mr. Ackerman settled some complex problem of
business. "I've told them my terms," he would say with irritation,
and then be would cough; and Peter, who was sharply watching every
detail of the conduct of the rich, noted that he was too polite even
to cough into the telephone. "If they will pay a hundred and
twenty-five thousand dollars on account, I will wait, but not a cent
less," Nelse Ackerman would say. And Peter, awe-stricken, realized
that he had now reached the very top of Mount Olympus, he was at the
highest point he could hope to reach until he went to heaven.

The old man fixed his dark eyes on his visitor. "Who wrote me that
letter?" whispered the husky voice.

Peter had been expecting this. "What letter, sir?"

"A letter telling me to see you."

"I don't know anything about it, sir."

"You mean--(cough) you didn't write me an anonynious letter?"

"No, sir, I didn't."

"Then some friend of yours must have written it."

"I dunno that. It might have been some enemy of the police."

"Well, now, what's this about the Reds having an agent in my home?"

"Did the letter say that?"

"It did."

"Well, sir, that's putting it too strong. I ain't sure, it's just an
idea I've had. It'll need a lot of explaining."

"You're the man who discovered this plot, I understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, take a chair, there," said the banker. There was a chair near
the bedside, but it seemed to Peter too close to be respectful, so
he pulled it a little farther away, and sat down on the front six
inches of it, still holding his hat in his hands and twisting it
nervously. "Put down that hat," said the old man, irritably. So
Peter stuck the hat under his chair, and said: "I beg pardon, sir."






Section 52





The old plutocrat was feeble and sick, but his mind was all there,
and his eyes seemed to be boring Peter through. Peter realized that
he would have to be very careful--the least little slip would be
fatal here.

"Now, Gudge," the old man began, "I want you to tell me all about
it. To begin with, how did you come to be among these Reds? Begin at
the beginning."

So Peter told how he had happened to get interested in the radical
movement, laying particular stress upon the dangerousness of these
Reds, and his own loyalty to the class which stood for order and
progress and culture in the country. "It ought to be stopped, Mr.
Ackerman!" he exclaimed, with a fine show of feeling; and the old
banker nodded. Yes, yes, it ought to be stopped!

"Well," said Peter, "I said to myself, `I'm going to find out about
them fellows.' I went to their meetings, and little by little I
pretended to get converted, and I tell you, Mr. Ackerman, our police
are asleep; they don't know what these agitators are doing, what
they're preaching. They don't know what a hold they've got on the
mobs of the discontented!"

Peter went on to tell in detail about the propaganda of social
revolution, and about conspiracies against law and order, and the
property and even the lives of the rich. Peter noticed that when the
old man took a sip of water his hand trembled so that he could
hardly keep the water from spilling; and presently, when the phone
rang again, his voice became shrill and imperious. "I understand
they're applying for bail for those men. Now Angus, that's an
outrage! We'll not hear to anything like that! I want you to see the
judge at once, and make absolutely certain that those men are held
in jail."

Then again the old banker had a coughing fit. "Now, Gudge," he said,
"I know more or less about all that. What I want to know is about
this conspiracy against me. Tell me how you came to find out about
it."

And Peter told; but of course he embellished it, in so far as it
related to Mr. Ackerman--these fellows were talking about Mr.
Ackerman all the time, they had a special grudge against him.

"But why?" cried the old man. "Why?"

"They think you're fighting them, Mr. Ackerman."

"But I'm not! That's not true!"

"Well, they say you put up money to hang Goober. They call
you--you'll excuse me?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"They call you the `head money devil.' They call you the financial
king of American City."

"King!" cried the banker. "What rubbish! Why, Gudge, that's fool
newspaper talk! I'm a poor man today. There are two dozen men in
this city richer than I am, and who have more power. Why--" But the
old man fell to coughing and became so exhausted that he sank back
into his pillows until he recovered his breath. Peter waited
respectfully; but of course he wasn't fooled. Peter had carried on
bargaining many times in his life, and had heard people proclaim
their poverty and impotence.

"Now, Gudge," the old man resumed. "I don't want to be killed; I
tell you I don't want to be killed."

"No, of course not," said Peter. It was perfectly comprehensible to
him that Mr. Ackerman didn't want to be killed. But Mr. Ackerman
seemed to think it necessary to impress the idea upon him; in the
course of the conversation he came back to it a number of times, and
each time he said it with the same solemn assurance, as if it were a
brand new idea, and a very unusual and startling idea. "I don't want
to be killed, Gudge; I tell you I don't want to let those fellows
get me. No, no; we've got to circumvent them, we've got to take
precautions--every precaution--I tell you every possible
precaution."

"I'm here for that purpose, Mr. Ackerman," said Peter, solemnly.
"I'll do everything. We'll do everything, I'm sure."

"What's this about the police?" demanded the banker. "What's this
about Guffey's bureau? You say they're not competent?"

"Well now, I'll tell you, Mr. Ackerman," said Peter, "It's a little
embarrassing. You see, they employ me--"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the other. "_I_ employ you! I'm putting up the
money for this work, and I want the facts!--I want them all."

"Well," said Peter, "they've been very decent to me--"

"I say tell me everything!" exclaimed the old man. He was a most
irritable old man, and couldn't stand for a minute not having what
he asked for. "What's the matter with them?"

Peter answered, as humbly as he could: "I could tell you a great
deal that'd be of use to you, Mr. Ackerman, but you got to keep it
between you and me."

"All right!" said the other, quickly. "What is it?"

"If you give a hint of it to anybody else," persisted Peter, "then
I'll get fired."

"You'll not get fired, I'll see to that. If necessary I'll hire you
direct."

"Ah, but you don't understand, Mr. Ackerman. It's a machine, and you
can't run against it; you gotta understand it, you gotta handle it
right. I'd like to help you, and I know I can help you, but you
gotta let me explain it, and you gotta understand some things."

"All right," said the old man. "Go ahead, what is it?"

"Now," said Peter, "it's like this. These police and all these
fellows mean well, but they don't understand; it's too complicated,
they ain't been in this movement long enough. They're used to
dealing with criminals; but these Reds, you see, are cranks.
Criminals ain't organized, at least they don't stand together; but
these Reds do, and if you fight 'em, they fight back, and they make
what they call `propaganda.' And that propaganda is dangerous--if
you make a wrong move, you may find you've made 'em stronger than
they were before."

"Yes, I see that," said the old man. "Well?"

"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 be 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!