“We can’t let the cops in,” said Pete Walsh. “Tell Gaylord no. We’ll stick. We agreed to sit down until Bartlett gave in.”
Olinger got his flags, signaled. After a moment there was a reply. “Gaylord’s coming over.”
“Ah,” said Henry Jackson, sardonically. “The big mucky-muck is going to risk crossing the road.”
Andy Gaylord did come over. He was a small man but a dynamic one. His speech was as crisp as his body. He greeted the strike chieftains briefly, then jerked his head toward Oliver Quade.
“Who’s this?”
“An innocent bystander,” said Quade. “I happened to be in the plant yesterday when the strike was called and the boys wouldn’t let me out.”
“Thin story,” snapped Gaylord. “You’re probably one of Bartlett’s spies. Somebody’s been in touch with him … Where’s Hocker, Olinger?”
“Dead. Murdered.”
Gaylord cursed. “That’s what Bartlett thought. Who did it? The same one who fired that shot at Spiess?”
Olinger nodded. At that moment Ruth Bartlett came into the office. “Bob!” she cried. “Martha—” Then she saw Andy Gaylord.
Andy Gaylord’s eyes flashed sparks. “What’s she doing here?”
Olinger looked surprised. “Why, you know there are fifty girls sitting down here.”
“Yes, but this is Bartlett’s daughter!”
Bob Olinger reeled back as if struck with a fist. “Bartlett’s what?”
“Daughter. She’s Ruth Bartlett. You didn’t know? … You are, aren’t you?”
Ruth Bartlett’s nostrils flared. “Yes. But—”
“Ruth!” cried Olinger. “You—how? Oh, hell!”
His face was strained—and angry, Quade thought. He knew then that Olinger was in love with the girl. In love with Ruth Larson, rather. He couldn’t afford to love Ruth Bartlett.
“I’ve been working in the plant for two months,” said Ruth Bartlett. “No one knew who I am. I’ve been living with Martha.”
“There’s your spy, Olinger!” Jackson said.
“No,” Quade said. “I recognized Miss Bartlett last night. I believe Miss Bartlett’s intentions here are okay. She’s siding with you, Olinger. She isn’t the spy!”
“What the hell do you know about it?” snarled Pete Walsh. “For all we know you’re in Bartlett’s pay yourself, you—”
“Look,” said Oliver Quade patiently. “You can say anything you like to me. But not in front of Miss Bartlett.”
“Miss Bartlett,” Gaylord said. “You’ve got to leave at once.”
“She can’t go!” said Smith. “She knows about Hocker!”
“It’s about that I came here, now,” cried Ruth. “That is, not about Mr. Hocker, but Martha! I can’t find her anywhere.”
Quade looked at Olinger and saw fear in the young strike leader’s eyes. Olinger said, with forced coolness: “Take a look in the cafeteria, Ruth. I think I saw her there a little while ago.
“I looked there a half hour ago. Was it since then?”
“Yes.”
Olinger lied. He hadn’t been in the cafeteria during the past half hour. Olinger wanted to get Ruth out of here. Before …
Ford Smith said, “She found Hocker, remember? Maybe the guy killed her, too.”
Ruth Bartlett screamed and Olinger stepped up to Smith and said furiously, “Keep your mouth shut!”
Smith recoiled, but Pete Walsh took up his battle. “You know that’s what we’re all thinking, Olinger!”
“Find that girl, Olinger,” said Gaylord. “Find her at once. There’s too much happening around here.”
“I’m doing my best. Want me to quit?” cried Olinger. “All right. I will. Get one of the others to run things here.”
Quade saw the quick look Andy Gaylord shot around at the strike captains before he replied hurriedly to Olinger. “No, no, Olinger. Don’t be so touchy. You’re handling things nicely. I got to get back to the other side.” He popped out of the room.
Olinger ran his fingers through his thick black hair. He looked at Ruth Bartlett and his face became strained. “All right, Ruth, you may as well know the worst. Someone from in here started that slaughter outside. Shot Sheriff Spiess from a window. That’s the gun, there.”
“How many bullets fired from it?” asked Ruth.
“Three,” Quade replied. “Two for Hocker and one outside.”
Relief flooded Ruth Bartlett’s face. “Then Martha—”
“Probably around the building somewhere.”
“We’ll have some of the boys look for her in a minute,” said Olinger.
Ruth smiled her thanks, and left the office. Then the strike captains lit into Olinger. “We’re licked on all sides,” said Steve Murphy. “Bartlett’s daughter in our ranks, spies, murders, mysterious riflemen …” He sighed heavily.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Ford Smith. “One that’ll cinch the strike for us. Bartlett’s daughter is here. Suppose we send the old man a message, saying if he gives in, nothin’ happens to his girl. But if he don’t …”
Bob Olinger was too slight to hit Smith. Smith would fight back and probably lick Olinger. So Quade beat Olinger to the punch. He smacked Smith alongside the jaw; a short, vicious punch that slammed him to the floor. He didn’t get up.
Pete Walsh snarled, “I say Smith’s idea isn’t bad. There’s twelve hundred men working here. Some’ve already been killed. If you think one girl is worth—”
Quade had to put a half nelson on Olinger to keep him from charging the bigger Walsh.
“I’m warning you, all of you!” howled Olinger. “If any of you so much as touches Ruth Bartlett, I’ll kill him myself!”
“No one’s going to touch her,” said Henry Jackson. “Steve and me’ll see to that, won’t we, Steve?”
The ex-prizefighter spat, “You damn right, Henry. I’m going to see Ford and Pete after the strike. I want to talk some things over.”
Quade headed Olinger for the door. “Come on, Olinger, we’ve got to look for Martha White.”
On the fourth floor they found her, behind a couple of cases. Her neck was broken. Her face wasn’t pretty to see. Quade covered Martha’s body with wrapping paper. “Olinger,” he said, “you’d better arbitrate with Bartlett.”
“I’m willing,” moaned Olinger. “It’s him that won’t. Gaylord’s made concessions. Our demands are damn reasonable, but Bartlett won’t meet them.”
“You mentioned other officials of the company. How much voice have they?”
“It’s a corporation. Bartlett owns controlling interest, did rather. I hear some of his stock is mortgaged now. Hocker, Samuel Sharp and Cassoway were the main stockholders. Hocker’s dead, Sharp has never been an active owner. Cassoway isn’t strong enough to buck Bartlett.”
“But every day the strike lasts, Bartlett loses money.”
“So do we. And it hurts us more than it does Bartlett.”
“I don’t know; if he’s had to mortgage his stock he can’t be so well fixed. If the strike runs two or three weeks and Bartlett pays all those strikebreakers and there was sabotage …”
“Sabotage!”
“I’ve been dreading it every minute since we found Hocker’s body. Look, do you figure one of the workmen would murder Hocker and Martha White, then shoot down the sheriff so the armed deputies would kill a few helpless fellow workers?” Olinger looked at Quade in astonishment. “But who would—”
“My contention is that the one who’s making all the trouble is doing it to prolong the strike. For one reason: To cripple Bartlett.”
“You mean one of Bartlett’s partners?”
“Or the one who holds the mortgage on Bartlett’s stock. If we knew who that was …”
They returned to the main office. And there they found a delegation of work
ers, a dozen or so. Ford Smith and Pete Walsh were as thick as thieves with them.
“The boys in the shop figure they got some say around here,” Ford Smith said.
One of the workers said, “We voted you the leader, Bob, and we ain’t complainin’. But in view of what happened outside we figure—”
“You want to quit?”
“Hell, no! Them was our buddies. But we’re sore and we want you and the others here to be damn sure and not knuckle under to Bartlett. We’re ready to fight the deputies and the strikebreakers. If they come bargin’ in, we’ll give them more than they bargained for.”
Bob Olinger shook his head. “Now, wait a minute, boys. You want to fight fire with fire. Well, that’s a good motto, but not for a strike. We decided on a peaceful sit-down strike. You start any rough stuff and the National Guard will be turned loose on us. What chance will we have then? Use your heads, boys, no matter what happens.”
“You see, fellows, he’s stuck on that Bartlett girl,” cut in Ford Smith.
“So you told them about her. All right, Smith, you can run things from now on. The boys haven’t confidence in me any more. I’m pulling out.”
Disgusted Quade walked out of the office. He went down to the recreation room. More than a hundred of the sit-down strikers were gathered around, playing games. Quade got up on a bench and began speaking. But today he was selling a human commodity, not books.
“Men,” he boomed, “your delegation has just elected a new leader for you. Ford Smith, who isn’t one-tenth the man Bob Olinger is … Shut up, until I finish! Smith wants to fight. He wants you to arm yourselves with wrenches and clubs and fight the National Guardsmen who are armed with machine guns, rifles, hand grenades and tear gas. Listen!” Quade’s voice carried to every ear in the room.
“You’ve fought a losing battle to now; you’re still fighting it. Because you’ve traitors in your own ranks, spies!”
“What about you?” someone yelled. “You don’t belong here.”
“No,” retorted Quade. “But I’m going to tell you some things. Last night John Hocker, vice president of this company, was murdered in this plant. With a rifle. The same rifle that was used to shoot Sheriff Spiess outside and which started that slaughter. The person who fired those shots was one of you; he also killed another worker in here, Martha White, this morning. We just found her body.”
Yells and curses went up, but Quade roared it all down. “Are you mad now? Well, you’re going to be a damn sight madder when Ford Smith gets to running things and fights the police and the National Guard. You’re going to be so mad a lot of you are going to get yourselves killed. And that’s going to make the rest of you even madder, those of you who’re left. You don’t want that. That’s why you need a leader who has a cool head, a calm one. Bob Olinger!”
Quade was the greatest salesman in the country. He could sell anything. He sold those sit-down strikers Bob Olinger…. He sold him so well to the men who had lost faith in him that they almost raised the roof.
When Ford Smith came into the room with the delegates he was hooted out. A few minutes later Olinger came in and received a real ovation.
And then, in the midst of it, Henry Jackson dashed up to Olinger. “Bob! Two carloads of National Guard officers just rolled up outside. They’re taking over!”
Major Parker of the National Guard came up to the Bartlett plant an hour later. Olinger, Quade, Jackson, Walsh and Murphy met the officer by the office entrance.
“I’ve just conferred with Gaylord, the union leader,” the major announced crisply. “Two companies of my men will be here within the hour. You understand, we’re here merely to preserve law and order. Martial law hasn’t been declared. We will not interfere with the strike in any way. That is up to the civil authorities.”
“What about us here in the plant?” asked Olinger.
“You remain in status quo,” replied the officer. “What’s already happened—that’s in the hands of the civil authorities. But from now on, preventing violence is our task.”
Olinger waved toward the street. “What about our pickets?”
“Only enough will be permitted so they won’t obstruct traffic—about twenty.”
“And suppose Bartlett tries again to run in his strikebreakers?”
Major Parker shook his head. “Legally, he can bring in men to work in his plant. But I’ve strongly advised him to avoid trouble. He told me strikebreakers wouldn’t come in.”
“Good!” said Bob Olinger. “Then there shouldn’t be any more trouble.”
When the Major had walked away Quade said softly to Olinger: “No more trouble? You forget, we’ve still got a murderer running around loose in here. He’s killed twice, and he’ll kill again if we don’t get him first.”
Olinger nodded grimly.
Henry Jackson stepped up to Quade and whispered, “I’ve found something in the foundry, Mr. Quade. Something important.”
“What?”
Jackson sighed. “Better come along and see. I’d rather the others didn’t know just yet.”
The foundry was in the rear of the plant. Quade let Jackson walk through the door. He started to follow—and then the world exploded on Quade’s head. He toppled into oblivion.
He came to the hard way. Pain lanced from his head, into his neck and shoulders, down into his body. But deep down in his indomitable unconsciousness a clarion call urged him on. He tore open his eyes and almost swooned again from the pain the effort caused.
He moved his muscles and then suddenly he was fully conscious. He discovered that he was lying on a concrete floor and that his arms and legs were tightly bound, his arms behind his back.
Acrid fumes stung Quade’s nostrils. He saw then that he was in the foundry. The strong odor was sulphuric acid, used extensively in a brass foundry. Five feet away from Quade, lay Henry Jackson, similarly trussed. Blood was smeared on the strike captain’s face, but he was conscious.
Quade looked steadily at him. “You, too?”
“He must have been hiding just outside the foundry door. I stepped through just ahead of you. I heard a thud as he hit you, started to turn and then he hit me.”
“You didn’t see his face?”
“No. When I came to a minute ago, I found myself like this.”
Quade was fully conscious now and the pain in his head was lessening. “What was there here in the foundry you wanted to show me?”
“A bomb. I accidentally discovered it. It was there on the bench. It’s gone, now!”
Quade looked at the work bench. His eyes went higher then and he saw a wall clock. It registered 3:45.
“The Guard’s due here at four o’clock. I guess the bomb’s intended for them. And then there’ll be holy hell to pay. Jackson, when you asked me to come here to the foundry I suspected a trap. That’s why I let you walk ahead, isn’t it?”
“I guessed a trap too. Well, you know that it wasn’t me, anyway.”
“Oh, no,” said Quade. “I know now that it was.”
“Who?”
“You’ve been much too clever, Jackson. When all the others were squawking about this and that, you were always the noble one.”
“You’re crazy. Olinger held out for peace—”
“Yeah, but you’re not Olinger. He’s an idealist.”
“If I’m supposed to be the villain of the piece, Quade, how come I’m tied up here beside you?”
“Like I said, your damnable cleverness. You made Smith sore at me because I discredited him with the workers. He had Napoleon ideas. Then, to have suspicion thrown away from you, you had him scratch you up a bit and tie you and leave you here a while beside me.”
Jackson sighed heavily. “You’re too smart, Quade. But I provided for that, too.” He kicked upwards with his bound feet, until they touched his fingers. Quade, watching, saw him dig a finger na
il into his shoe and pull out a tiny blade. Jackson, looking at Quade, grinned sardonically.
“I had this ready, just in case.” He sawed his bound wrists against the blade. It cut through the rope. Jackson’s hands came free and he pulled out the blade entirely from the heel and cut through the ropes binding his ankles.
“Since you know, there’s no reason for me to wait here,” he said sardonically. “It was just for an alibi anyway. In about five minutes the bomb’s going off. No one’ll know how it went off. They’ll think someone threw it from a window. Smith, figuring I was tied up here, would never guess I was responsible for it. Now, I’ve a different plan. There’ll be plenty of fighting when the militia charges the plant. Maybe you and Smith can be accidentally killed … So long, Quade! I’ve got something very important to do—since you made me change my plans.”
Jackson came across, kicked Quade viciously in the face and hurried from the foundry.
Quade waited only until the door had slammed after Jackson. He knew the whole thing now. Jackson had planted the bomb during the night, probably buried it in the ground or placed it in a box which was in plain sight and unsuspected. He had counted on being tied up with Quade during the time the bomb went off. Now, he’d be conspicuous around Olinger and the other captains; his hands empty.
Only Quade knew and Quade was a prisoner here in the foundry. No one would think to look for him during the coming excitement. During the height of it, Jackson would come back, finish Quade with a bullet and then remove the ropes from his wrists and ankles. When he was found eventually, he’d be merely “another victim of the riot.”
Quade looked again at the clock and suddenly started rolling his body. He reached the bench, sat up. Then with his back against it and his feet flat on the floor he began edging up. He reached his feet.
On the bench, three feet from the edge, was a copper vessel. From the smell of it Quade knew that it contained sulphuric acid. He turned so his back was to the bench. Then he bent forward and groped behind his back for the vessel of acid. He got hold of it, dragged it to the edge of the bench.
Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia Page 20