“Have you seen Jake?”
“Uh-huh. That was funny. He dropped in this morning. I think he heard about the ruckus and wanted to see was there anything in his line of business. And has he changed!”
“Changed?” What voice MacVeagh had was breathless.
“He practically delivered a sermon. All about what a fool he’s been and man cannot live by bread alone and in times like these and stuff. Grover isn’t going to seem the same without Jake’s atheism.”
“Scientific method,” said MacVeagh.
“What do you mean, boss?”
“Molly, there’s something I’ve got to tell you about the Sentinel. You’ll think I’m crazy maybe, but there’s too much to disregard. You’ve got to believe it.”
“Boss, you know I believe every word you say.” She laughed, but the laugh didn’t succeed in discounting her obvious sincerity.
“Molly—”
“Hi, MacVeagh. Feeling fit again? Ready to take on a dozen more finks?”
MacVeagh focused his eyes on the gangling figure. “Bricker! I’m glad to see you. Almost as glad as I was last night. I don’t feel too bright and loquacious yet, but when I do, consider yourself scheduled for the best speech of gratitude ever made in Grover.”
Bricker waved one hand. “That’s OK. Nothing to it. United front. We’ve got to gang up—victims of oppression. Collective security.”
“Anything I can do for you—”
“You’re doing plenty.” Bricker pulled up a chair and sat down, his long legs sprawling in front of him. “You know, MacVeagh, I had you figured wrong.”
“How so?”
“I thought you were just another editor. You know, a guy who joins liberal committees and prints what the advertisers want. But I had the wrong picture. You’ve got ideas and the guts to back ’em.”
MacVeagh basked. Praise felt good after what he’d been through. But Bricker’s next words woke him up.
“How much did you try to shake Hitchcock down for?”
“How much— I— Why— Look, Bricker, I don’t get you.”
Bricker eased himself more comfortably into the chair and said, “He don’t shake easy. Don’t I know! But a tree with them apples is worth shaking.”
“You mean you’re . . . you’ve been blackmailing Hitchcock?”
“I can talk to you, MacVeagh. Nobody else in this town has got the guts or the sense to see my angle. But you’ve got angles of your own; you can understand. Sure I’ve been shaking him down. Before I moved in on that local, it sounded like a Socialist Party pink tea. ‘Better working conditions. A living wage. Rights of labor.’ ” He expressed his editorial comment in a ripe raspberry. “I saw the possibilities and I took over. Old Hasenberg and the rest of those boys—they don’t know from nothing about politics. A few plants, a little pressure, and I was in—but for good. Then I put it up to H. A.: ‘How much is it worth to you to get along without strikes?’ ” MacVeagh opened his mouth, but the words stuck there.
“So you see?” Bricker went on calmly. “We can work together. The more pressure you put on Hitchcock with this murder scandal, the more he can’t afford to risk labor trouble. And vice, as the fellow says, versa. So you can count on me any time you need help. And when this blows over— There’s lots more can happen, MacVeagh, lots more. Between us, we can wind up owning this town.
“Keep the murder story running as long as you can. That’s my advice. If it begins to look like a solution that’ll clear Hitchcock and his family, keep it quiet. Keep the pressure on him, and he’ll kick through in the end. I know his type . . . What is it you’re really after, MacVeagh? Just cash, or the daughter?”
MacVeagh was still speechless. He was glad that Luke Sellers came in just then. It kept him from sputtering.
Luke was fair-to-middling speechless himself. He nodded at Bricker and Molly, and finally he managed to say, “Johnny, if I hadn’t been on the wagon for two days I swear I’d go on and stay there!”
Bricker looked interested. “What’s happened?”
“You were in Courthouse Square,” said John MacVeagh.
“That’s it, all right. I was in Courthouse Square. And General Wigginsby has enlisted in the scrap drive. Funny freak wind last night, the boys at Clem’s say. Didn’t do any other damage. But, Johnny, how you knew—”
“What is all this?” Bricker broke in. “What’s the angle on the statue, MacVeagh?”
The editor smiled wearily. “No angle, Bricker. Not the way you mean. Nothing you’d understand. But maybe something that’s going to make a big difference to you and your angles.”
Bricker glanced at Molly and touched his head. “Still don’t feel so good, huh? Well, I’ve got to be getting along. I’ll drop in again off and on, MacVeagh. We’ve got plans to make. Glad I helped you last night, and remember: keep up the good work.” Luke Sellers looked after the lean figure. “What’s he mean by that?”
“Not what he thinks he means,” said John MacVeagh, “I hope. Out of the frying pan—”
Molly shuddered. “He’s as bad as H. A. Hitchcock.”
“Just about. And if I hush up the murder, I’m playing H. A.’s game, and if I give it a big play, I’m stooging for Bricker’s racket. I guess,” he said thoughtfully, “there’s only one thing to do. Molly, Luke! We’re getting out another extra.”
“Life,” said Luke Sellers, “used to be a sight simpler before I went and got sober. Now nothing makes any sense. An extra? What for?”
“We’re going to get out another extra,” MacVeagh repeated. “Tomorrow. And the banner head is going to be: MURDERER CONFESSES.”
“But, boss, how do we know—”
Luke Sellers was thinking of General Wigginsby. “Hush, Molly,” he said. “Let’s see what happens.”
IV
MURDERER CONFESSES
At a late hour last night, the murderer of Mrs. Agnes Rogers walked into the Grover police station and gave himself up. Police Chief J. B. Hanby is holding him incommunicado until his confession has been checked.
The murderer’s identity, together with a full text of his confession, will be released in time for a further special
