“Not so tough your ears and nose aren’t a sight,” Hugo said lightly.
The man advanced. His voice was throaty. “Git!”
“You go to the devil. I came here to see Melcher and I’m going to see him.”
“Yeah?”
The tough one drew back his fist, but he never understood afterwards what had taken place. He came to in the kitchen an hour later. Mr. Melcher heard him rumble to the floor and emerged from the library. He was a huge man, bigger than his bouncer; his face was hard and sinister and it lighted with an unpleasant smile when he saw the unconscious thug and measured the size of Hugo. “Pulled a fast one on Harry, eh?”
“I came to see you, Melcher.”
“Well, might as well come in now. I worked up from the mines myself, and I’m a hard egg. If you got funny with me, you’d get killed. Wha’ daya want?”
Hugo sat down in a leather chair and lit a cigarette. He was comparatively without emotion. This was his appointed task and he would make short shrift of it. “I came here, Melcher,” he began, “to talk about your part in the arms conferences. It happens that I disagree with you and your propaganda. It happens that I have a method of enforcing my opinion. Disarmament is a great thing for the world, and putting the idea across is the first step toward even bigger things. I know the relative truths of what you say about America’s peril and what you get from saying it. Am I clear?”
Melcher had reddened. He nodded. “Perfectly.”
“I have nothing to add. Get out of town.”
Melcher’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really believe that sending me out of town would do any good? Do you have the conceit to think that one nutty shrimp like you can buck the will and ideas of millions of people?”
Hugo did not permit his convictions to be shaken. “There happen to be extenuating circumstances, Melcher.”
“Really? You surprise me.” The broad sarcasm was shaken like a weapon. “And do you honestly think you could chase me—me—out of here?”
“I am sure of it.”
“How?”
Hugo extinguished his cigarette. “I happen to be more than a man. I am—” he hesitated, seeking words—“let us say, a devil, or an angel, or a scourge. I detest you and what you stand for. If you do not leave—I can ruin your house and destroy you. And I will.” He finished his words almost gently.
Melcher appeared to hesitate. “All right. I’ll go. Immediately. This afternoon.”
Hugo was astonished. “You will go?”
“I promise. Good afternoon, Mr. Danner.”
Hugo rose and walked toward the door. He was seething with surprise and suspicion. Had he actually intimidated Melcher so easily? His hand touched the knob. At that instant Melcher hit him on the head with a chair. It broke in pieces. Hugo turned around slowly.
“I understand. You mistook me for a dangerous lunatic. I was puzzled for a moment. Now—”
Melcher’s jaw sagged in amazement when Hugo did not fall. An instant later he threw himself forward, arms out, head drawn between his shoulders. With one hand Hugo imprisoned his wrists. He lifted Melcher from the floor and shook him. “I meant it, Melcher. And I will give you a sign. Rotten politics, graft, bad government, are doomed.” Melcher watched with staring eyes while Hugo, with his free hand, rapidly demolished the room. He picked up the great desk and smashed it, he tore the stone mantelpiece from its roots; he kicked the fireplace apart; he burst a hole in the brick wall—dragging the bulk of a man behind him as he moved. “Remember that, Melcher. No one else on earth is like me—and I will get you if you fail to stop. I’ll come for you if you squeal about this—and I leave it to you to imagine what will happen.”
Hugo walked into the hall. “You’re all done for—you cheap swindlers. And I am doom.” The door banged.
Melcher swayed on his feet, swallowed hard, and ran upstairs. “Pack,” he said to his valet.
He had gone; Hugo had removed the first of the public enemies. Yet Hugo was not satisfied. His approach to Melcher had been dramatic, terrifying, effective. There were rumors of that violent morning. The rumors said that Melcher had been attacked, that he had been bought out for bigger money, that something peculiar was occurring in Washington. If ten, twenty men left and those rumors multiplied by geometrical progression, sheer intimidation would work a vast good.
But other facts disconcerted Hugo. In the first place, his mind kept reverting to Melcher’s words: “Do you have the conceit to think that one person can buck the will of millions?” No matter how powerful that person, his logic added. Millions of dollars or people? the same logic questioned. After all, did it matter? People could be perjured by subtler influences than gold. Secondly, the parley over arms continued to be an impasse despite the absence of Melcher. Perhaps, he argued, he had not removed Melcher soon enough. A more carefully focused consideration showed that, in spite of what Hatten had said. It was not individuals against whom the struggle was made, but mass stupidity, gigantic bulwarks of human incertitude. And a new man came in Melcher’s place—a man who employed different tactics. Hugo could not exorcise the world.
A few days later Hugo learned that two radicals had been thrown into jail on a charge of murder. The event had taken place in Newark, New Jersey. A federal officer had attempted to break up a meeting. He had been shot. The men arrested were blamed, although it was evident that they were chance seizures, that their proved guilt could be at most only a social resentfulness. At first no one gave the story much attention. The slow wheels of Jersey justice—printed always in quotation marks by the dailies—began to turn. The men were summarily tried and convicted of murder in
