With these reflections Peter went back to the American House, where
McGivney had promised to meet him that evening. Peter went to Room
427, and being tired after the previous night’s excitement, he lay
down and fell fast asleep. And when again he opened his eyes, he
wasn’t sure whether it was a nightmare, or whether he had died in
his sleep and gone to hell with Mr. Godd. Somebody was shaking him,
and bidding him in a gruff voice, “Wake up!” Peter opened his eyes,
and saw that it was McGivney; and that was all right, it was natural
that McGivney should be waking him up. But what was this? McGivney’s
voice was angry, McGivney’s face was dark and glowering, and--most
incredible circumstance of all--McGivney had a revolver in his hand,
and was pointing it into Peter’s face!
It really made it much harder for Peter to get awake, because he
couldn’t believe that he was awake; also it made it harder for
McGivney to get any sense out of him, because his jaw hung down, and
he stared with terrified eyes into the muzzle of the revolver.
“M-m-my God, Mr. McGivney! w-w-what’s the matter?”
“Get up here!” hissed the rat-faced man, and he added a vile name.
He gripped Peter by the lapel of his coat and half jerked him to his
feet, still keeping the muzzle of the revolver in Peter’s face. And
poor Peter, trying desperately to get his wits together, thought of
half a dozen wild guesses one after another. Could it be that
McGivney had heard him denouncing Mr. Godd and proclaiming himself a
Red? Could it be that some of the Reds had framed up something on
Peter? Could it be that McGivney had gone just plain crazy; that
Peter was in the room with a maniac armed with a revolver?
“Where did you put that money I gave you the other day;” demanded
McGivney, and added some more vile names.
Instantly, of course, Peter was on the defensive. No matter how
frightened he might be, Peter would never fail to hang on to his
money.
“I-I s-s-spent it, Mr. McGivney.”
“You’re lying to me!”
“N-n-no.”
“Tell me where you put that money!” insisted the man, and his face
was ugly with anger, and the muzzle of the revolver seemed to be
trembling with anger. Peter started to insist that he had spent
every cent. “Make him cough up, Hammett!” said McGivney; and Peter
for the first time realized that there was another man in the room.
His eyes had been so fascinated by the muzzle of the revolver that
he hadn’t taken a glance about.
Hammett was a big fellow, and he strode up to Peter and grabbed one
of Peter’s arms, and twisted it around behind Peter’s back and up
between Peter’s shoulders. When Peter started to scream, Hammett
clapped his other hand over his mouth, and so Peter knew that it was
all up. He could not hold on to money at that cost. When McGivney
asked him, “Will you tell me where it is?” Peter nodded, and tried
to answer thru his nose.
So Hammett took his hand from his mouth. “Where is it?” And Peter
replied, “In my right shoe.”
Hammett unlaced the shoe and took it off, and pulled out the inside
sole, and underneath was a little flat package wrapped in tissue
paper, and inside the tissue paper was the thousand dollars that
McGivney had given Peter, and also the three hundred dollars which
Peter had saved from Nelse Ackerman’s present, and two hundred
dollars which he had saved from his salary. Hammett counted the
money, and McGivney stuck it into his pocket, and then he commanded
Peter to put on his shoe again. Peter obeyed with his trembling
fingers, meantime keeping his eye in part on the revolver and in
part on the face of the rat.
“W-w-what’s the matter, Mr. McGivney?”
“You’ll find out in time,” was the answer. “Now, you march
downstairs, and remember, I’ve got this gun on you, and there’s
eight bullets in it, and if you move a finger I’ll put them all into
you.”
So Peter and McGivney and Hammett went down in the elevator of the
hotel, and out of doors, and into an automobile. Hammett drove, and
Peter sat in the rear seat with McGivney, who had the revolver in
his coat pocket, his finger always on the trigger and the muzzle
always pointed into Peter’s middle. So Peter obeyed all orders
promptly, and stopped asking questions because he found he could get
no answers.
Meantime he was using his terrified wits on the problem. The best
guess he could make was that Guffey had decided to believe Joe
Angell’s story instead of Peter’s. But then, why all this gun-play,
this movie stuff? Peter gave up in despair; and it was just as well,
for what had happened lay entirely beyond the guessing power of
Peter’s mind or any other mind.