On the one hand, inevitably, there was the group—vocally headed by Banker Manson—who claimed that what they called the “smear campaign” was a vile conspiracy between MacVeagh and labor leader Tim Bricker.
That was to be expected. With Manson and his crowd, you pushed certain buttons and you got certain automatic responses. But MacVeagh had not foreseen the reverse of the coin he had minted: the bitterness and resentment among the little people.
“Whatddaya expect?” he overheard in Clem’s barber shop. “You take a guy like Hitchcock, you don’t think they can do anything to him, do you? Why, them guys can get away with—” The speaker stopped, as though that were a little more than he had meant to say.
But there were other voices to take up his accusation.
“Go ahead, Joe, say it. Get away with murder.”
“Sure, who’s gonna try to pin a rap on the guy that owns the town?”
“What good’s a police chief when he’s all sewed up pretty in Hitchcock’s pocket?”
“And the Sentinel don’t dare print half it knows. You all know the editor’s got a yen for Hitchcock’s daughter. Well—”
“Somebody ought to do something.”
That last was the crystallized essence of their feeling. Somebody ought to do something. And those simple words can be meaningful and ugly. They were on many tongues in Germany in the twenties.
John MacVeagh thought about the sorcerer’s apprentice, who summoned the powers beyond his control. But, no, that was a pointed but still light and amusing story. This was becoming grim. If he and Molly could only crack this murder, cut through to the solution and dispel once and for all these dissatisfied grumblings—
But how was that to be done? They had so few facts, and nothing to disprove the fantastic notion of a wandering tramp invading the upper story of a fully occupied house without disturbing a soul save his victim. If some trick of psychological pressure could force a confession—
MacVeagh mused on these problems as he walked back to the office after dinner on Thursday, and came regretfully to the conclusion that there was nothing to do but go on as per schedule: print Friday’s regular edition with what follow-up was possible on the murder story, and dig and delve as best they could to reach toward the truth.
He frowned as he entered the office. Sidewalk loafers weren’t so common on Spruce Street. They hung out more on South, or down near the station on Jackson. But this evening there was quite a flock of them within a few doors of the Sentinel.
Lucretius Sellers was chuckling over the copy he was setting up. “That sure is a good one you’ve got here on Jake, Johnny. Lord, I never did think I’d see the day— Maybe pretty soon we’ll see that ascetic atheist taking a drink, too. Which reminds me—”
He caught MacVeagh’s eye and paused. “Nope. Don’t know what I was going to say, Johnny.” He had been sober now since Whalen Smith’s departure had caused his sudden drafting back into his old profession. And he knew, and MacVeagh knew, that the only way for him to stay sober was to climb completely on the wagon.
“Making out all right, Luke?” MacVeagh asked.
“Swell, Johnny. You know, you think you forget things, but you don’t. Not things you learn with your hands, you don’t. You ask me last week could I still set type and I’d say no. But there in my fingers—they still remembered. But look, Johnny—”
“Yes?”
“This item about the Wigginsby statue. It’s a swell idea, but it just hasn’t happened. I was past there not an hour ago, and the old boy’s as big and ugly as ever. And besides, this says ‘last night.’ That means tonight—how can I set up what hasn’t happened yet?”
“Luke, you’ve been grand to me. You’ve helped me out of a spot by taking over. But if I can impose on you just a leetle bit more—please don’t ask any questions about the general’s statue. Just set it up and forget about it. Maybe I’ll have something to tell you about that item tomorrow, maybe not. But in any case—”
His voice broke off sharply. He heard loud thumping feet in the front office. He heard Molly’s voice shrilling. “What do you want? You can’t all of you come crowding in here like this!”
Another voice said, “We’re in, ain’t we, sister?” It was a calm, cold voice.
“We’ve got work to do,” Molly persisted. “We’ve got a paper to get out.”
“That,” said the voice, “is whatjyou think.” There was a jangling crash that could be made only by a typewriter hurled to the floor.
MacVeagh shucked his coat as he stepped into the front office. No time for rolling up sleeves. He snapped the lock on the door as he came through; that’d keep them from the press for a matter of minutes, anyway. He felt Luke at his heels, but he didn’t look. He walked straight to the towering redhead who stood beside Molly’s desk, the wrecked typewriter at his feet, and delivered the punch that he had neglected to give Phil Rogers.
The redhead was a second too late to duck, but he rolled with it. His left came up to answer it with a short jab, but suddenly he staggered back. His face was a dripping black mess, and he let out an angry roar. He charged in wide-open fury, and this time MacVeagh connected.
He’d recognized the redhead. Chief of Hitchcock’s company police. He’d heard about him—how he had a tough skull and a tougher belly, but a glass chin. For once, MacVeagh reflected, rumor was right.
It was the silent quickness of the whole episode that impressed the other Hitchcock men and halted them for a moment. MacVeagh blessed Molly for her beautifully timed toss with the ink bottle. He glanced at her and saw
