There was a strained, gin-laden silence. The struggle of Randall Pierson against the deadening waves of the alcohol already in his brain was not a pretty thing. But he mastered it. If he were not sober when he spoke, at least there was no evidence of drunkenness left in him. He said quietly, but with an overtone of eagerness:
“Yes. I think I see it! It is so very simple, Phineas. But we must have a retainer of some sort from Parkes! An appointment of me as his counsel and a revocation of his acceptance of Horstmann. It’s irregular, Phineas, but Blake may permit it if we can get a letter. Blake’s an honest man. I’ll move for an appeal and—”
“A letter?” Phineas Spear surged out of his chair. “Only a letter? Hell, Counselor — you write what you want. Write it now! I’ll get it signed. I’ll get you a whole mail sack full of letters.”
Chapter III
Protection Racket
His eyes gleamed as he finished reading: “The Blade accepts this challenge to Freedom, freedom of thought and the right to say what it thinks. It is the opinion of the Blade that the murder of Senator Southard has not been solved. Come what may, it is the intention of the Blade to say so!” And Phineas Spear slapped the paper on the counter with a resounding whack.
The man in the soiled white apron said softly, “That Blade — it tells ’em, huh?”
He looked up, still narrow-eyed for a moment. Then he relaxed and grinned.
“You want somethin’, Mr. Spear?” the counterman offered.
“Yeah, Nick. I want a steak and spuds and gravy — but I’ve only time for a hamburger. Make it thick, will you, and fast. Coffee, black... You read the Home Edition?”
“Sure, Mr. Spear. I read your extry, too. Y’musta sold a million copies o’ that! The headline — that war stuff! It got ’em!”
“What’d you think of it, Nick?” Spear shot at him.
The man bent over his stove. His hands shaped raw hamburger swiftly; hot grease hissed and crackled as he scaled it into the frying pan. He looked around the little diner furtively, even though he must have known there was no one else in it. Nick said:
“Mr. Spear, in this town, what I think an’ what I say sometimes two dif’rent things. You know?”
Phineas Spear nodded, smiled vaguely. The Greek went on, “You tell me once that you come here from New York. Now I tell you something — an’ maybe it help you un’erstan’ some things. I come from New York, too — three-four years ago. It was tough goin’ in the city, but anyway I get a little ahead. Then — bang! Some hard guy come in my place an’ say I got to buy this or that from his boss — an’ pay twenty per cent more for it. Or else my restaurant is smashed! Only he don’t say that, but I know! So I buy this or that from his boss.
“But what the hell?” he shrugged expressively. “I have to up my prices — people beef about it — but I go along some more, get a little ahead again — Socko! Some other hard guy come in. He say I got to have protection. Lots o’ places like mine been wrecked lately — by the mobs. It don’t cost me but fifty bucks a month, an’ I gotta have protection — or else! He don’t say so either, but I know that gag, too! I buy protection. Then I go along some more, but now I can’t even pay my bills, let alone gettin’ a little ahead. An’ I got a wife, two little Nicks — so I come here where there ain’t no gangsters — maybe.”
Phineas Spear shook catsup over the smoking hamburger, bit into it and munched silently. His eyes were distant, reflective. Nick spread both hands palm down on the bar, leaned over and finished softly:
“Funny though, ain’t it, Mr. Spear? Wherever you go I guess they have hard guys. In New York they call ’em racketeers. Here they call ’em somethin’ else. You know? But it’s all the same if you don’t pay. Black coffee, y’said?”
Spear drawled, “Yeah, Nick. Black. Which costs the most — Racketeers or Guardsmen of America?”
“They cost... about the same, Mr. Spear.”
The door opened and two men came in, ordered food. Both of them eyed Spear, but neither spoke.
He poured water in his coffee to cool it, drained the cup in long, thirsty gulps. Rising, he tossed a dollar on the counter and went out into the half-dark of early evening.
He walked slowly. “The Blade accepts this challenge to Freedom.”
Cara had written that! All in all the most stirring editorial the paper had ever printed, and Cara had written it! Phineas Spear felt no envy, felt rather a surge of grim, sardonic humor. Cara Collin, graduate of the best school of journalism in the country, had tried for months to land a job. Bardin had offered her one — in a nice little apartment that wouldn’t cost her a cent — if! But Cara had just paid him off for that!
She had, he reflected, got out the Blade alone today. After leaving Pierson, Spear had spent the afternoon at the jail, waiting to see old Abel Parkes. Waiting! No one had said he couldn’t see him. They told him he’d have to wait, that was all. But after a while he got the idea. While he waited, a News-Herald got through to Parkes’ cell. A press photographer was passed in. Phineas Spear smiled politely and left. There was another way of getting at Parkes — as soon as it grew dark! He stopped in at the first hardware store he passed, then strode on toward the Blade building. There’d be nobody around this late, but he could leave some notes for Cara to write into tomorrow’s paper.
Without consciousness of stealth, he let himself in without a sound — and then stopped inside the door, tense, fiercely thankful he had come in quietly. From Cara’s half open office door light filtered, a suave voice reached his ears.
“Now Cara, you’ve known me almost all your life. You can trust me — my judgment, my experience. After all, what do you know about this Spear? Why a man who would print such stuff as this...”
Spear heard Cara’s clipped, contemptuous words:
“Major Bardin, it happens that I not only printed, but also wrote the stuff you’re referring to. Mr. Spear had enough faith in my ability — as a newspaper woman... to—”
“Oh!” A harder note crept into Bardin’s smooth tones. “So Spear turned his editorial writing over to a woman! Nice trick — one I might have expected from a yellow—”
From the door, unseen himself in the shadowy outer office, Spear saw them. Saw Cara Collin’s flaming eyes when she said quietly, “Get out of here!” But Bardin laughed.
He stepped closer and a powerful arm encircled her suddenly, jerked her against him. He kissed her, laughed again — and laughter vanished swiftly from his eyes. He cursed incoherently, raised a hand to the cheek she had raked from hair-line to jaw with manicured, sharp nails. Then he ground between clenched teeth:
“You little hell-cat! Don’t think you’ll get away with this! Don’t think you and Spear can—”
“Well, Major?” Phineas Spear stood in the doorway, blocking it. He spoke pleasantly but his eyes blazed. “Fraternizing with the opposition, what? Can I show you around our plant? Our back yard, perhaps. We have a lovely back yard. Practically no one can see into it and I doubt if sounds would carry far.”
Bardin’s teeth flashed. He was a big man, beefy, thick-bodied. He spat the words savagely, “Get out of my way, Spear! I should’ve known better than to try to reason with you. I should’ve—”
Phineas Spear smiled and stood where he was. “Yes,” he drawled, “if that’s what you call it, you should’ve brought your gang! I thought we might spare Miss Collin the actual fisticuffs, but if you don’t want to see our back yard—”