He caught MacVeagh’s eye and paused. “Nope. Don’t know what I was going to say, Johnny.” He had been sober now since Whalen Smith’s departure had caused his sudden drafting back into his old profession. And he knew, and MacVeagh knew, that the only way for him to stay sober was to climb completely on the wagon.
“Making out all right, Luke?” MacVeagh asked.
“Swell, Johnny. You know, you think you forget things, but you don’t. Not things you learn with your hands, you don’t. You ask me last week could I still set type and I’d say no. But there in my fingers—they still remembered. But look, Johnny—”
“Yes?”
“This item about the Wigginsby statue. It’s a swell idea, but it just hasn’t happened. I was past there not an hour ago, and the old boy’s as big and ugly as ever. And besides, this says last night.’ That means tonight—how can I set up what hasn’t happened yet?”
“Luke, you’ve been grand to me. You’ve helped me out of a spot by taking over. But if I can impose on you just a leetle bit more—please don’t ask any questions about the general’s statue. Just set it up and forget about it. Maybe I’ll have something to tell you about that item tomorrow, maybe not. But in any case—”
His voice broke off sharply. He heard loud thumping feet in the front office. He heard Molly’s voice shrilling. “What do you want? You can’t all of you come crowding in here like this!”
Another voice said, “We’re in, ain’t we, sister?” It was a calm, cold voice.
“We’ve got work to do,” Molly persisted. “We’ve got a paper to get out.”
“That,” said the voice, “is what you think.” There was a jangling crash that could be made only by a typewriter hurled to the floor.
MacVeagh shucked his coat as he stepped into the front office. No time for rolling up sleeves. He snapped the lock on the door as he came through; that’d keep them from the press for a matter of minutes, anyway. He felt Luke at his heels, but he didn’t look. He walked straight to the towering redhead who stood beside Molly’s desk, the wrecked typewriter at his feet, and delivered the punch that he had neglected to give Phil Rogers.
The redhead was a second too late to duck, but he rolled with it. His left came up to answer it with a short jab, but suddenly he staggered back. His face was a dripping black mess, and he let out an angry roar. He charged in wide-open fury, and this time MacVeagh connected.
He’d recognized the redhead. Chief of Hitchcock’s company police. He’d heard about him—how he had a tough skull and a tougher belly, but a glass chin. For once, MacVeagh reflected, rumor was right.
It was the silent quickness of the whole episode that impressed the other Hitchcock men and halted them for a moment MacVeagh blessed Molly for her beautifully timed toss with the ink bottle. He glanced at her and saw that she now held her desk scissors ready in a stabbing grip. Luke Sellers held a wrench.
But they were three, and there were a dozen men in the room besides the fallen redhead. One of them stepped forward now, a swarthy little man whose face was stubbled in blue-black save for the white streak of an old knife scar.
“You shouldn’t ought to of done that,” he said. “Red didn’t mean you no harm, not personal. No roughhouse, see? And if you listen to reason, why, OK.”
“And if I don’t?” MacVeagh asked tersely.
“If you don’t? Well, then it looks like we’re going to have to smash up that pretty press of yours, mister. But there don’t nobody need to get hurt. You ain’t got a chance against the bunch of us. You might as well admit it if you don’t want us to have to smash up that pretty puss of yours too.”
“What can we do?” Molly whispered. “He’s right; we can’t stand them all off. But to smash the press—”
Luke Sellers waved his wrench and issued wholesale invitations to slaughter.
Scarface grinned. “Call off the old man, mister. He’s apt to get hurt. Well, how’s about it? Do you let us in nice and peaceable or do we smash down the door?”
MacVeagh opened a drawer of the desk and put his hand in. “You can try smashing,” he said, “if you don’t mind bullets.”
“We don’t mind bluffs,” said Scarface dryly. “OK, boys!”
MacVeagh took his empty hand from the drawer. There was only one thing to do, and that was to fight as long as he could. It was foolish, pointless, hopeless. But it was the only thing that a man could do.
The men came. Scarface had somehow managed wisely to drop to the rear of the charge. As they came, MacVeagh stooped. He rose with the wreck of the typewriter and hurled it. It took the first man out and brought the second thudding down with him. MacVeagh followed it with his fists.
Luke Sellers, as a long-standing authority on barroom brawls, claimed that the ensuing fight lasted less than a minute. It seemed closer to an hour to MacVeagh, closer yet to an eternity. Time vanished and there was nothing, no thinking, no reasoning, no problems, no values, nothing but the ache in his body as blows landed on it and the joy in his heart as his own blows connected and the salt warmth of blood in his mouth.
From some place a thousand light-years away he heard a voice bellowing, “Quit it! Lay off!” The words meant nothing. He paid no more attention to them than did the man who at the moment held his head in an elbow lock and pummeled it with a heavy ring-bearing fist. The voice sounded again as MacVeagh miraculously wriggled loose, his neck aching with the strain, and delivered an unorthodox knee blow to the ring wearer. Still the voice meant nothing.
But the shot did.
It thudded into the ceiling, and its echoes rang through the room. The voice bellowed again, “Now do you believe I mean it? Lay off. All of you!”
The sound and smell of powder wield a weighty influence in civilian reactions. The room was suddenly very still. MacVeagh wiped sweat and blood from his face, forced his eyes open, and discovered that he could see a little.
He could see a tall gaunt man with crudely Lincolnian features striding toward him. He recognized the labor leader. “Sergeant Bricker, I presume?” he said groggily.
Bricker looked his surprise. “Sergeant? MacVeagh, you’re punchy.”
“Uh-huh.” MacVeagh cast dim eyes on the two armed bodyguards at the door and at the restlessly obedient men of the company’s police. “Don’t you know? You’re the U. S. Marines.”
Then somebody pulled a blackdotted veil over the light, which presently went out altogether.
At first John MacVeagh thought it was a hangover. To be sure, he had never had a hangover like this. To be equally sure, he resolved that he never would again. A convention of gnomes was holding high revels in his skull and demonstrating the latest rock-drilling gadgets.
He groaned and tried to roll over. His outflung arm felt emptiness, and his body started to slip. A firm hand shoved him back into place.
He opened his eyes. They ached even more resolutely when open, and he quickly dropped his lids. But he had seen that he was on the narrow couch in the back office, that Molly’s hand had rescued him from rolling off, and that it was daylight.
“Are you OK, boss?” Molly’s voice was softer than usual.
“I’ll be all right as soon as they shovel the dirt in on me.”
“Can you listen while I tell you things?”
“I can try. Tell me the worst. What did I do? Climb chandeliers and sing bawdy ballads to the Ladies’ Aid?”
He heard Molly laugh. “You weren’t plastered boss. You were in a fight. Remember?”
The shudder that ran through him testified to his memory. “I remember now. Hitchcock’s little playmates. And Bricker showed up and staged the grand rescue and I passed out. Fine, upstanding hero I am. Can’t take it—”
“You took plenty. Doc Quillan was worried about a concussion at first. That’s why he had us keep you here—didn’t want to risk moving you home. But he looked at you again this morning and he thinks you’ll be OK.”
“And I never even felt it. Exalted, that’s what I must’ve been.
Wonderful thing, lust of battle. This morning! Sunlight!” He forced his eyes open and tried to sit up. “Then it’s Friday! The paper should be—”
Molly pushed him back. “Don’t worry, boss. The Sentinel came out this morning. Everything’s hunky-dory. Bricker lent us a couple of men to help, and it’s all swell.”
“Bricker— Where’d we be without him? A god out of the machinists’ union. And the paper’s out …” Suddenly he tried to sit up again, then decided against it. “Molly!”
“Yes, boss?”
“Have you been in Courthouse Square this morning?”
“No, boss. Doc Quillan said I ought to— I mean, there’s been so much to do here in the office—”
“Have you seen Jake?”
“Uh-huh. That was funny. He dropped in this morning. I think he heard about the ruckus and wanted to see was there anything in his line of business. And has he changed!”
“Changed?” What voice MacVeagh had was breathless.
“He practically delivered a sermon. All about what a fool he’s been and man cannot live by bread alone and in times like these and stuff. Grover isn’t going to seem the same without Jake’s atheism.”
“Scientific method,” said MacVeagh.
“What do you mean, boss?”
“Molly, there’s something I’ve got to tell you about the Sentinel. You’ll think I’m crazy maybe, but there’s too much to disregard. You’ve got to believe it.”
“Boss, you know I believe every word you say.” She laughed, but the laugh didn’t succeed in discounting her obvious sincerity.
“Molly—”
“Hi, MacVeaghl Feeling fit again? Ready to take on a dozen more finks?”
MacVeagh focused his eyes on the gangling figure. “Bricker! I’m glad to see you. Almost as glad as I was last night. I don’t feel too bright and loquacious yet, but when I do, consider yourself scheduled for the best speech of gratitude ever made in Grover.”
Bricker waved one hand. “That’s OK. Nothing to it. United front. We’ve got to gang up—victims of oppression. Collective security.”
“Anything I can do for you—”
“You’re doing plenty.” Bricker pulled up a chair and sat down, his long legs sprawling in front of him. “You know, MacVeagh, I had you figured wrong.”
“How so?”
“I thought you were just another editor. You know, a guy who joins liberal committees and prints what the advertisers want. But I had the wrong picture. You’ve got ideas and the guts to back ’em.”
MacVeagh basked. Praise felt good after what he’d been through. But Bricker’s next words woke him up.
“How much did you try to shake Hitchcock down for?”
“How much—I— Why— Look, Bricker, I don’t get you.”
Bricker eased himself more comfortably into the chair and said, “He don’t shake easy. Don’t I know! But a tree with them apples is worth shaking.”
“You mean you’re … you’ve been blackmailing Hitchcock?”
“I can talk to you, MacVeagh, Nobody else in this town has got the guts or the sense to see my angle. But you’ve got angles of your own; you can understand. Sure I’ve been shaking him down. Before I moved in on that local, it sounded like a Socialist Party pink tea. ‘Better working conditions. A living wage. Rights of labor.’” He expressed his editorial comment in a ripe raspberry. “I saw the possibilities and I took over. Old Hasenberg and the rest of those boys—they don’t know from nothing about politics. A few plants, a little pressure, and I was in—but for good. Then I put it up to H. A.: ‘How much is it worth to you to get along without strikes?’”
MacVeagh opened his mouth, but the words stuck there.
“So you see?” Bricker went on calmly. “We can work together. The more pressure you put on Hitchcock with this murder scandal, the more he can’t afford to risk labor trouble. And vice, as the fellow says, versa. So you can count on me any time you need help. And when this blows over— There’s lots more can happen, MacVeagh, lots more. Between us, we can wind up owning this town.
“Keep the murder story running as long as you can. That’s my advice. If it begins to look like a solution that’ll clear Hitchcock and his family, keep it quiet. Keep the pressure on him, and he’ll kick through in the end. I know his type. … What is it you’re really after, MacVeagh? Just cash, or the daughter?”
MacVeagh was still speechless. He was glad that Luke Sellers came in just then. It kept him from sputtering.
Luke was fair-to-middling speechless himself. He nodded at Bricker and Molly, and finally he managed to say, “Johnny, if I hadn’t been on the wagon for two days I swear I’d go on and stay there!”
Bricker looked interested. “What’s happened?”
“You were in Courthouse Square,” said John MacVeagh.
“That’s it, all right. I was in Courthouse Square. And General Wigginsby has enlisted in the scrap drive. Funny freak wind last night, the boys at Clem’s say. Didn’t do any other damage. But, Johnny, how you knew—”
“What is all this?” Bricker broke in. “What’s the angle on the statue, MacVeagh?”
The editor smiled wearily. “No angle, Bricker. Not the way you mean. Nothing you’d understand. But maybe something that’s going to make a big difference to you and your angles.”
Bricker glanced at Molly and touched his head. “Still don’t feel so good, huh? Well, I’ve got to be getting along. I’ll drop in again off and on, MacVeagh. We’ve got plans to make. Glad I helped you last night, and remember: keep up the good work.”
Luke Sellers looked after the lean figure. “What’s he mean by that?”
“Not what he thinks he means,” said John MacVeagh, “I hope. Out of the frying pan—”
Molly shuddered. “He’s as bad as H. A. Hitchcock.”
“Just about. And if I hush up the murder, I’m playing H. A.’s game, and if I give it a big play, I’m stooging for Bricker’s racket. I guess,” he said thoughtfully, “there’s only one thing to do. Molly, Luke! We’re getting out another extra.”
“Life,” said Luke Sellers, “used to be a sight simpler before I went and got sober. Now nothing makes any sense. An extra? What for?”
“We’re going to get out another extra,” MacVeagh repeated. “Tomorrow. And the banner head is going to be: MURDERER CONFESSES.”
“But, boss, how do we know—”
Luke Sellers was thinking of General Wigginsby. “Hush, Molly,” he said. “Let’s see what happens.”
IV.
MURDERER CONFESSES
At a late hour last night, the murderer of Mrs. Agnes Rogers walked into the Grover police station and gave himself up. Police Chief J. B. Hanby is holding him incommunicado until his confession has been checked.
The murderer’s identity, together with a full text of his confession, will be released in time for a further special edition of the Sentinel later today, Chief Hanby promises.
This story was set up and printed in the Grover Sentinel late Friday night and was on sale early Saturday morning. At eleven fifty-five P.M. Friday, Neville Markham, butler to Mrs. Agnes Rogers, walked into the police station and confessed to the murder.
“‘The butler did it,’” said Molly between scornful quotation marks.
“After all,” said John MacVeagh, “I suppose sometime the butler must do it. Just by the law of averages.”
It was Saturday night, and the two of them were sitting in the office talking after the frantic strain of getting out the second extra of the day. Luke Sellers had gone home and gone to bed with a fifth.
“A man can stay a reformed character just so long,” he said, “and you won’t be needing me much for a couple of days. Unless,” he added, “you get any more brilliant inspirations before the fact. Tell me, Johnny, how did you …” But he let the query trail off unfinished and went home, clutching his fifth as though it were the one sure thing in a wambling world.
The second extra had carried the butler’s wh
ole story: how he, a good servant of the Lord, had endured as long as he could his mistress’ searching for strange gods until finally a Voice had said to him, “Smite thou this evil woman,” and he smote. Afterward he panicked and tried to make it look like robbery. He thought he had succeeded until Friday night, when the same Voice said to him, “Go thou and proclaim thy deed,” and he went and proclaimed.
MacVeagh wished he’d been there. He’d bet the butler and Chief Hanby had fun swapping texts.
‘The butler did it,’” Molly repeated. “And I never so much as mentioned the butler in my stories. You don’t even think of butlers—not since the twenties.”
“Well, anyway, the murder is solved. That’s the main thing. No more pressure from either Hitchcock or Bricker. No more mumbling dissension in Grover.”
“But don’t you feel … oh, I don’t know … cheated? It’s no fun when a murder gets solved that way. If you and I could’ve figured it out and broken the story, or even if Chief Hanby had cracked it with dogged routine … But this way it’s so flat!”
“Weary, flat, and stale, Molly, I agree. But not unprofitable. We learned the truth, and the truth has solved a lot of our problems.”
“Only,—”
“Yes, Molly?”
“Only, boss— How? I’ve got to know how. How could you know that the butler was going to hear another Voice and confess? And that isn’t all. Luke told me about General Wigginsby.”
Molly had never seen John MacVeagh look so serious. “All right,” he said. “I’ve got to tell somebody, anyway. It eats at me. … OK. You remember how Whalen left so abruptly? Well,—”
Molly sat wide-eyed and agape when he finished the story. “Ordinarily,” she said at last, “I’d say you were crazy, boss. But Old Man Herkimer and General Wigginsby and the butler … What was Whalen—”
MacVeagh had wondered about that too. Sometimes he could still almost feel around the office the lingering presence of that gaunt old man with the books vou couldn’t read and the beard that wasn’t there. What had he been?
“And what’re you going to do, boss? It looks like you can do practically anything. If anything we print in he paper turns out to be the truth— What are you going to do?”
The Compleat Werewolf Page 20
