It was all up with Peter. He would go back into the hole! He would
be tortured for the balance of his days! In his ears rang the
shrieks of ten thousand lost souls and the clang of ten thousand
trumpets of doom; and yet, in the midst of all the noise and
confusion, Peter managed somehow to hear the voice of Nell,
whispering over and over again: “Stick it out, Peter; stick it out!”
He flung out his hands and started toward his accuser. “Mr. Guffey,
as God is my witness, I don’t know a thing about it but what I’ve
told you. That’s what happened, and if Joe Angell tells you anything
different he’s lying.”
“But why should he lie?”
“I don’t know why; I don’t know anything about it!”
Here was where Peter reaped the advantage of his lifelong training
as an intriguer. In the midst of all his fright and his despair,
Peter’s subconscious mind was working, thinking of schemes. “Maybe
Angell was framing something up on you! Maybe he was fixing some
plan of his own, and I come along and spoiled it; I sprung it too
soon. But I tell you it’s straight goods I’ve given you.” And
Peter’s very anguish gave him the vehemence to check Guffey’s
certainty. As he rushed on, Peter could read in the eyes of the
detective that he wasn’t really as sure as he talked.
“Did you see that suit-case?” he demanded.
“No, I didn’t see no suit-case!” answered Peter. “I don’t even know
if there was a suit-case. I only know I heard Joe Angell say
`suit-case,’ and I heard him say `dynamite.’”
“Did you see anybody writing anything in the place?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Peter. “But I seen Henderson sitting at the
table working at some papers he had in his pocket, and I seen him
tear something up and throw it into the trash-basket.” Peter saw the
others look at one another, and he knew that he was beginning to
make headway.
A moment later came a diversion that helped to save him. The
telephone rang, and the Chief of Police answered and nodded to
Guffey, who came and took the receiver. “A book?” he cried, with
excitement in his tone. “What sort of a plan? Well, tell one of your
men to take the car and bring that book and the plan here to the
chief’s office as quick as he can move; don’t lose a moment,
everything may depend on it.”
And then Guffey turned to the others. “He says they found a book on
sabotage in the book-case, and in it there’s some kind of a drawing
of a house. The book has McCormick’s name in it.”
There were many exclamations over this, and Peter had time to think
before the company turned upon him again. The Chief of Police now
questioned him, and then the deputy of the district attorney
questioned him; still he stuck to his story. “My God!” he cried.
“Would you think I’d be mad enough to frame up a job like this?
Where’d I get all that stuff? Where’d I get that dynamite?”--Peter
almost bit off his tongue as he realized the dreadful slip he had
made. No one had ever told him that the suit-case actually contained
dynamite! How had he known there was dynamite in it? He was
desperately trying to think of some way he could have heard; but, as
it happened, no one of the five men caught him up. They all knew
that there was dynamite in the suit-case; they knew it with
overwhelming and tremendous certainty, and they overlooked entirely
the fact that Peter wasn’t supposed to know it. So close to the edge
of ruin can a man come and yet escape!
Peter made haste to get away from that danger-spot. “Does Joe Angell
deny that he was whispering to Jerry Rudd?”
“He doesn’t remember that,” said Guffey. “He may have talked with
him apart, but nothing special, there wasn’t any conspiracy.”
“Does he deny that he talked about dynamite?”
“They may have talked about it in the general discussion, but he
didn’t whisper anything.”
“But I heard him!” cried Peter, whose quick wits had thought up a
way of escape, “I know what I heard! It was just before they were
leaving, and somebody had turned out some of the lights. He was
standing with his back to me, and I went over to the book-case right
behind him.”
Here the deputy district attorney put in. He was a young man, a
trifle easier to fool than the others. “Are you sure it was Joe
Angell?” he demanded.
“My God! Of course it was!” said Peter. “I couldn’t have been
mistaken.” But he let his voice die away, and a note of bewilderment
be heard in it.
“You say he was whispering?”
“Yes, he was whispering.”
“But mightn’t it have been somebody else?”
“Why, I don’t know what to say,” said Peter. “I thought for sure it
was Joe Angell; but I had my back turned, I’d been talking to Grady,
the secretary, and then I turned around and moved over to the
book-case.”
“How many men were there in the room?”
“About twenty, I guess.”
“Were the lights turned off before you turned around, or after?”
“I don’t remember that; it might have been after.” And suddenly poor
bewildered Peter cried: “It makes me feel like a fool. Of course I
ought to have talked to the fellow, and made sure it was Joe Angell
before I turned away again; but I thought sure it was him. The idea
it could be anybody else never crossed my mind.”
“But you’re sure it was Jerry Rudd that was talking to him?”
“Yes, it was Jerry Rudd, because his face was toward me.”
“Was it Rudd or was it the other fellow that made the reply about
the `sab-cat’?” And then Peter was bewildered and tied himself up,
and led them into a long process of cross-questioning; and in the
middle of it came the detective, bringing the book on sabotage with
McCormick’s name written in the fly-leaf, and with the ground plan
of a house between the pages.
They all crowded around to look at the plan, and the idea occurred
to several of them at once: Could it be Nelse Ackerman’s house? The
Chief of Police turned to his phone, and called up the great
banker’s secretary. Would he please describe Mr. Ackerman’s house;
and the chief listened to the description. “There’s a cross mark on
this plan--the north side of the house, a little to the west of the
center. What could that be?” Then, “My God!” And then, “Will you
come down here to my office right away and bring the architect’s
plan of the house so we can compare them?” The Chief turned to the
others, and said, “That cross mark in the house is the sleeping
porch on the second floor where Mr. Ackerman sleeps!”
So then they forgot for a while their doubts about Peter. It was
fascinating, this work of tracing out the details of the conspiracy,
and fitting them together like a picture puzzle. It seemed quite
certain to all of them that this insignificant and scared little man
whom they had been examining could never have prepared so ingenious
and intricate a design. No, it must really be that some master mind,
some devilish intriguer was at work to spread red ruin in American
City!