All had worked out, in the matter of The Searchlight, quite as much to
Mr. Ely Ives's satisfaction as to that of Banneker. From his boasted and
actual underground wire into that culture-bed of spiced sewage (at the
farther end of which was the facile brunette whom the visiting editor
had so harshly treated), he had learned the main details of the
interview and reported them to Mr. Marrineal.
"Will Banneker now be good?" rhetorically queried Ives, pursing up his
small face into an expression of judicious appreciation. "He _will_ be
good!"
Marrineal gave the subject his habitual calm and impersonal
consideration. "He hasn't been lately," he observed. "Several of his
editorials have had quite the air of challenge."
"That was before he turned blackmailer. Blackmail," philosophized the
astute Ives, "is a gun that you've got to keep pointed all the time."
"I see. So long as he has Bussey covered by the muzzle of The Patriot,
The Searchlight behaves itself."
"It does. But if ever he laid down his gun, Bussey would make hash of
him and his lady-love."
"What about her?" interrogated Marrineal. "Do you really think--" His
uplifted brows, sparse on his broad and candid forehead, consummated the
question.
For reply the factotum gave him a succinct if distorted version of the
romance in the desert.
"She dished him for Eyre," he concluded, "and now she's dishing Eyre for
him."
"Bussey's got all this?" inquired Marrineal, and upon the other's
careless "I suppose so," added, "It must grind his soul not to be able
to use it."
"Or not to get paid for suppressing it," grinned Ives.
"But does Banneker understand that it's fear of his pen, and not of
being killed, that binds Bussey?"
Ives nodded. "I've taken care to rub that in. Told him of other cases
where the old Major was threatened with all sorts of manhandling; scared
out of his wits at first, but always got over it and came back in The
Searchlight, taking his chance of being killed. The old vulture really
isn't a coward, though he's a wary bird."
"Would Banneker really kill him, do you think?"
"I wouldn't insure his life for five cents," returned the other with
conviction. "Your editor is crazy-mad over this Mrs. Eyre. So there you
have him delivered, shorn and helpless, and Delilah doesn't even suspect
that she's acting as our agent."
Marrineal's eyes fixed themselves in a lifeless sort of stare upon a far
corner of the ceiling. Recognizing this as a sign of inward cogitation,
the vizier of his more private interests sat waiting. Without changing
the direction of his gaze, the proprietor indicated a check in his
ratiocination by saying incompletely:
"Now, if she divorced Eyre and married Banneker--"
Ives completed it for him. "That would spike The Searchlight's guns, you
think? Perhaps. But if she were going to divorce Eyre, she'd have done
it long ago, wouldn't she? I think she'll wait. He won't last long."
"Then our hold on Banneker, through his ability to intimidate The
Searchlight, depends on the life of a paretic."
"Paretic is too strong a word--yet. But it comes to about that.
Except--he'll want a lot of money to marry Io Eyre."
"He wants a lot, anyway," smiled Marrineal.
"He'll want more. She's an expensive luxury."
"He can get more. Any time when he chooses to handle The Patriot so that
it attracts instead of offends the big advertisers."
"Why don't you put the screws on him now, Mr. Marrineal?" smirked Ives
with thin-lipped malignancy.
Marrineal frowned. His cold blood inclined him to be deliberate; the
ophidian habit, slow-moving until ready to strike. He saw no reason for
risking a venture which became safer the further it progressed.
Furthermore, he disliked direct, unsolicited advice. Ignoring Ives's
remark he asked:
"How are his investments going?"
Ives grinned again. "Down. Who put him into United Thread? Do you know,
sir?"
"Horace Vanney. He has been tipping it off quietly to the club lot.
Wants to get out from under, himself."
"There's one thing about it, though, that puzzles me. If he took old
Vanney's tip to buy for a rise, why did he go after the Sippiac Mills
with those savage editorials? They're mainly responsible for the
legislative investigation that knocked eight points off of United
Thread."
"Probably to prove his editorial independence."
"To whom? You?"
"To himself," said Marrineal with an acumen quite above the shrewdness
of an Ives to grasp.
But the latter nodded intelligently, and remarked: "If he's money-crazy
you've got him, anyway, sooner or later. And now that he's woman-crazy,
too--"
"You'll never understand just how sane Mr. Banneker is," broke in
Marrineal coldly. He was a very sane man, himself.
"Well, a lot of the sane ones get stung on the Street," moralized Ives.
"I guess the only way to beat that game is to get crazy and take all the
chances. Mr. Banneker stands to drop half a year's salary in U.T. alone
unless there's a turn."
Marrineal delivered another well-thought-out bit of wisdom. "If I'm any
judge, he wants a paper of his own. Well ... give me three years more of
him and he can have it. But I don't think it'll make much headway
against The Patriot, then."
"Three years? Bussey and The Searchlight ought to hold him that long.
Unless, of course, he gets over his infatuation in the meantime."
"In that case," surmised Marrineal, eyeing him with distaste, "I suppose
you think that he would equally lose interest in protecting her from The
Searchlight."
"Well, what's a woman to expect!" said Ives blandly, and took his
dismissal for the day.
It was only recently that Ives had taken to coming to The Patriot
office. No small interest and conjecture were aroused among the
editorial staff as to his exact status, stimulus to gossip being
afforded by the rumor that he had been, from Marrineal's privy purse,
shifted to the office payroll. Russell Edmonds solved and imparted the
secret to Banneker.
"Ives? Oh, he's the office sandbag."
"Translate, Pop. I don't understand."
"It's an invention of Marrineal's. Very ingenious. It was devised as a
weapon against libel suits. Suppose some local correspondent from
Hohokus or Painted Post sends in a story on the Honorable Aminadab
Quince that looks to be O.K., but is actually full of bad breaks. The
Honorable Aminadab smells money in it and likes the smell. Starts a
libel suit. On the facts, he's got us: the fellow that got pickled and
broke up the Methodist revival wasn't Aminadab at all, but his tough
brother. If it gets into court we're stung. Well, up goes little
Weaselfoot Ives to Hohokus. Sniffs around and spooks around and is a
good fellow at the hotel, and possibly spends a little money where it's
most needed, and one day turns up at the Quince mansion. 'Senator, I
represent The Patriot.' 'Don't want to see you at all. Talk to my
lawyer.' 'But he might not understand my errand. It relates to an
indictment handed down in 1884 for malversasion of school funds.' 'Young
man, do you dare to intimate--' and so forth and so on; bluster and
bluff and threat. Says Ives, very cool: 'Let me have your denial in
writing and we'll print it opposite the certified copy of the
indictment.' The old boy begins to whimper; 'That's outlawed. It was all
wrong, anyway.' Ives is sympathetic, but stands pat. Drop the suit and
The Patriot will be considerate and settle the legal fees. Aminadab
drops, ten times out of ten. The sandbag has put him away."
"But there must be an eleventh case where there's nothing on the man
that's suing."
"Say a ninety-ninth. One libel suit in a hundred may be brought in good
faith. But we never settle until after Ives has done his little prowl."
"It sounds bad, Pop. But is it so bad, after all? We've got to protect
ourselves against a hold-up."
"Dirty work, but somebody's got to do it: ay--yes? I agree with you. As
a means of self-defense it is excusable. But the operations of the
sandbag have gone far beyond libel in Ives's hands."
"Have they? To what extent?"
"Any. His little private detective agency--he's got a couple of our
porch-climbing, keyhole reporters secretly assigned to him at call for
'special work'--looks after any man we've got or are likely to have
trouble with; advertisers who don't come across properly, city officials
who play in with the other papers too much, politicians--"
"But that's rank blackmail!" exclaimed Banneker.
"Carried far enough it is. So far it's only private information for the
private archives."
"Marrineal's?"
"Yes. He and his private counsel, old Mark Stecklin, are the keepers of
them. Now, suppose Judge Enderby runs afoul of our interests, as he is
bound to do sooner or later. Little Weaselfoot gets on his
trail--probably is on it already--and he'll spend a year if necessary
watching, waiting, sniffing out something that he can use as a threat or
a bludgeon or a bargain."
"What quarrel have we got with Enderby?" inquired Banneker with lively
interest.
"None, now. But we'll be after him hot and heavy within a year."
"Not the editorial page," declared Banneker.
"Well, I hope not. It would be rather a right-about, wouldn't it? But
Marrineal isn't afraid of a right-about. You know his creed as to his
readers: 'The public never remembers.' Of course, you realize what
Marrineal is after, politically."
"No. He's never said a word to me."
"Nor to me. But others have. The mayoralty."
"For himself?"
"Of course. He's quietly building up his machine."
"But Laird will run for reelection."
"He'll knife Laird."
"It's true Laird hasn't treated us very well, in the matter of backing
our policies," admitted Banneker thoughtfully. "The Combined Street
Railway franchise, for instance."
"He was right in that and you were wrong, Ban. He had to follow the
comptroller there."
"Is that where our split with Enderby is going to come? Over the
election?"
"Yes. Enderby is the brains and character back of the Laird
administration. He represents the clean government crowd, with its
financial power."
Banneker stirred fretfully in his chair. "Damn it!" he growled. "I wish
we could run this paper _as_ a newspaper and not as a chestnut rake."
"How sweet and simple life would be!" mocked the veteran. "Still, you
know, if you're going to use The Patriot as a blunderbuss to point at
the heads of your own enemies, you can't blame the owner if he--"
"You think Marrineal knows?" interposed Banneker sharply.
"About The Searchlight matter? You can bet on one thing, Ban. Everything
that Ely Ives knows, Tertius Marrineal knows. So far as Ives thinks it
advisable for him to know, that is. Over and above which Tertius is no
fool, himself. You may have noticed that."
"It's bothered me from time to time," admitted the other dryly.
"It'll bother both of us more, presently," prophesied Edmonds.
"Then I've been playing direct into Marrineal's hands in attacking Laird
on the franchise matter."
"Yes. Keep on."
"Strange advice from you, Pop. You think my position on that is wrong."
"What of that? You think it's right. Therefore, go ahead. Why quit a
line of policy just because it obliges your employes? Don't be
over-conscientious, son."
"I've suspected for some time that the political news was being adroitly
manipulated against the administration. Has Marrineal tried to ring you
in on that?"
"No; and he won't."
"Why not?"
"He knows that, in the main, I'm a Laird man. Laird is giving us what we
asked for, an honest administration."
"Suppose, when Marrineal develops his plans, he comes to you, which
would be his natural course, to handle the news end of the anti-Laird
campaign. What would you do?"
"Quit."
Banneker sighed. "It's so easy for you."
"Not so easy as you think, son. Even though there's a lot of stuff being
put over in the news columns that makes me sore and sick. Marrineal's
little theory of using news as a lever is being put into practice pretty
widely. Also we're selling it."
"Selling our news columns?"
"Some of 'em. For advertising. You're well out of any responsibility for
that department. I'd resign to-morrow if it weren't for the fact that
Marrineal still wants to cocker up the labor crowd for his political
purposes, and so gives me a free hand in my own special line. By the
way, he's got the Veridian matter all nicely smoothed out. Oh, my, yes!
Fired the general manager, put in all sorts of reforms, recognized the
union, the whole programme! That's to spike McClintick's guns if he
tries to trot out Veridian again as proof that Marrineal is, at heart,
anti-labor."
"Is he?"
"He's anti-anything that's anti-Marrineal, and pro-anything that's
pro-Marrineal. Haven't you measured him yet? All policy, no principle;
there's Mr. Tertius Marrineal for you.... Ban, it's really you that
holds me to this shop." Through convolutions of smoke from his tiny
pipe, the old stager regarded the young star of journalism with a quaint
and placid affection. "Whatever rotten stuff is going on in the business
and news department, your page goes straight and speaks clear.... I
wonder how long Marrineal will stand for it ... I wonder what he intends
for the next campaign."
"If my proprietor runs for office, I can't very well not support him,"
said Banneker, troubled.
"Not very well. The pinch will come as to what you're going to do about
Laird. According to my private information, he's coming back at The
Patriot."
"For my editorials on the Combined franchise?"
"Hardly. He's too straight to resent honest criticism. No; for some of
the crooked stuff that we're running in our political news. Besides,
some suspicious and informed soul in the administration has read between
our political lines, and got a peep of the aspiring Tertius girding
himself for contest. Result, the city advertising is to be taken from
The Patriot."
It needed no more than a mechanical reckoning of percentages to tell
Banneker that this implied a serious diminution of his own income.
Further, such a procedure would be in effect a repudiation of The
Patriot and its editorial support.
"That's a rotten deal!" he exclaimed.
"No. Just politics. Justifiable, too, I should say, as politics go. I
doubt whether Laird would do it of his own motion; he plays a higher
game than that. But it isn't strictly within his province either to
effect or prevent. Anyhow, it's going to be done."
"If he wants to fight us--" began Banneker with gloom in his eyes.
"He doesn't want to fight anybody," cut in the expert. "He wants to be
mayor and run the city for what seems to him the city's best good. If he
thought Marrineal would carry on his work as mayor, I doubt if he'd
oppose him. But our shrewd old friend, Enderby, isn't of that mind.
Enderby understands Marrineal. He'll fight to the finish."
Edmonds left his friend in a glum perturbation of mind. Enderby
understood Marrineal, did he? Banneker wished that he himself did. If he
could have come to grips with his employer, he would at least have known
now where to take his stand. But Marrineal was elusive. No, not even
elusive; quiescent. He waited.
As time passed, Banneker's editorial and personal involvements grew more
complex. At what moment might a pressure from above close down on his
pen, and with what demand? How should he act in the crisis thus forced,
at Marrineal's slow pleasure? Take Edmonds's Gordian recourse; resign?
But he was on the verge of debt. His investments had gone badly; he
prided himself on the thought that it was partly through his own
immovable uprightness. Now, this threat to his badly needed percentages!
Surely The Patriot ought to be making a greater profit than it showed,
on its steadily waxing circulation. Why had he ever let himself be
wrenched from his first and impregnable system of a straight payment on
increase of circulation? Would it be possible to force Marrineal back
into that agreement? No income was too great, surely, to recompense for
such trouble of soul as The Patriot inflicted upon its editorial
mouthpiece.... Through the murk of thoughts shot, golden-rayed, the
vision of Io.
No world could be other than glorious in which she lived and loved him
and was his.