"Everything you wrote for PIB seems to have treated him kindly."
A shadow of deep concern crossed Mariel's face, as though for the first
time he found himself in deep water. "PIB told me what to write, and I
wrote it. You know how they work."
"Yes, I know how they work. I also know that most of your writing, while
you were doing Public Information Board work, was never ordered by PIB.
Ever hear of Ben Chamberlain, Mariel? Or Frank Eberhardt? Or Jon
Harding? Ever hear of them, Mariel?" Shandor's voice cut sharply through
the room. "Ben Chamberlain wrote for every large circulation magazine in
the country, after the Chinese war. Frank Eberhardt was the man behind
Associated Press during those years. Jon Harding was the silent
publisher of three newspapers in Washington, two in New York, and one in
Chicago. Ever hear of those men, Mariel?"
"No, no--"
"You know damned well you've heard of them. Because _those men were all
you_. Every single one of them--" Shandor was standing close to him,
now, and Mariel sat like he had seen a ghost, his lower lip quivering,
forehead wet. "No, no, you're wrong--"
"No, no, I'm right," mocked Shandor. "I've been in the newspaper racket
for a long time, Mariel. I've got friends in PIB--real friends, not the
shamus crowd you're acquainted with that'll take you for your last
nickel and then leave you to starve. Never mind how I found out. You
hated Ingersoll so much you handed him bouquets all the time. How about
it, Mariel? All that writing--you couldn't praise him enough. Boosting
him, beating the drum for him and his policies--every trick and gimmick
known in the propaganda game to give him a boost, make him the people's
darling--how about it?"
Mariel was shaking his head, his little eyes nearly popping with fright.
"It wasn't him," he choked. "Ingersoll had nothing to do with it. It was
Dartmouth Bearing. They bought me into the spots. Got me the newspapers,
supported me. Dartmouth Bearing ran the whole works, and they told me
what to write--"
"Garbage! Dartmouth Bearing--the biggest munitions people in America,
and I'm supposed to believe that they told you to go to bat for the
country's strongest pacifist! What kind of sap do you take me for?"
"It's true! Ingersoll had nothing to do with it, nothing at all."
Mariel's voice was almost pleading. "Look, I don't know what Dartmouth
Bearing had in mind. Who was I to ask questions? You don't realize their
power, Shandor. Those bonds I spoke of--they hold millions of dollars
worth of bonds! They hold enough bonds to topple the economy of the
nation, they've got bonds in the names of ten thousand subsidiary
companies. They've been telling Federal Economics Commission what to do
for the past ten years! And they're getting us into this war,
Shandor--lock, stock and barrel. They pushed for everything they could
get, and they had the money, the power, the men to do whatever they
wanted. You couldn't fight them, because they had everything sewed up so
tight nobody could approach them--"
Shandor's mind was racing, the missing pieces beginning, suddenly, to
come out of the haze. The incredible, twisted idea broke through again,
staggering him, driving through his mind like icy steel. "Listen,
Mariel. I swear I'll kill you if you lie to me, so you'd better tell the
truth. Who put you on my trail? Who told you Ingersoll was dead, and
that I was scraping up Ingersoll's past?"
The little man twisted his hands, almost in tears. "Harry Dartmouth told
me--"
"And who told Harry Dartmouth?"
Mariel's voice was so weak it could hardly be heard. "The girl," he
said.