It was hell. It lasted only a half minute, but that was long enough to strew a number of bodies along the street.
“Oh, God!” cried Bob Olinger in the plant. “It happened!”
“That first bullet,” Quade gritted. “It came from this building. Upstairs!”
Olinger blinked stupidly. Then: “Of course! The sheriff was facing this way when he was hit. He jerked backwards from the impact. Lord! Who—”
“The same man who did for Hocker…. Olinger, you’ve got to get that man. There’s going to be plenty of hell about that out there. If you don’t get the person responsible for it—”
“I know that. But how can I find one man among three hundred?”
“He’s got a gun, a rifle. You ought to find it.”
“In a plant of this size?”
Quade scowled. “Olinger, have you thought that perhaps all of this, the murder of Hocker, that shot, are all part of an insidious plot?”
“To make us lose the strike?”
“Not exactly — Look, the trucks are backing away.”
“But the police and deputies are staying. They’re driving back our men.”
“What if they try to drive you out of here?”
Olinger swung around. “I don’t think they’ll try that. The men outside are unarmed, out in the open. They can’t fight against a hundred guns. But in here — no, I don’t think they’ll try that. Anyway, not with the sheriff out of it.”
“But the National Guard!”
Olinger swore. “Above all, Gaylord and the rest of us didn’t want the National Guard here. The governor was opposed to our strike in the first place.”
“He’s a fair man, though. You’ll get a square deal from him. Perhaps it’ll be a good thing if the Guard does come,” Quade said.
“Oh, they’ll come all right. I understand a couple of companies were already mobilizing last night, just in case.”
“And then comes the investigation — and they’ll find the body here.”
Olinger’s shoulders stiffened. “We’re licked? Is that what you mean?”
Quade was looking out of the window. “The flags, Olinger. Gaylord says the shot came from the fourth floor, directly over us. But it was too far away to recognize who did the shooting.”
“Let’s go!”
The room on the fourth floor was a typists’ office. The door was unlocked; the room was empty.
“He’s gone!” cried Olinger.
“He’s done his work. You didn’t expect him to stick around.” Quade was looking around the floor. Olinger watched him, puzzled. Quade suddenly stooped and picked up something.
“The empty shell,” he said. “It’s a thirty-thirty — the same gun that killed Hocker. Hardly be two such guns in the plant. Now to find the gun.”
“You don’t think he’d leave it here, do you?”
Quade shrugged. “Where else? It’s daylight now and he’d hardly take a chance walking through the plant with a rifle. He probably brought it up here last night and hid it. Let’s see, where would I hide a rifle in here?”
He looked around the room. There were steel lockers and filing cabinets and many desks. He frowned. “Perhaps under a desk, fastened there with a couple of bent nails or string…”
Olinger, too, got down on his knees and began looking under desks. It was Quade, though, who found the gun — under a desk.
“A thirty-thirty repeating rifle,” he commented, examining the stock critically. He sighed. “He wiped it off. No fingerprints.”
Quade worked the lever of the rifle. The gun tossed out four loaded cartridges; he put them in his pocket.
They returned to the main office. The four strike captains were there. Olinger told them about the bullet coming from the fourth-floor window. The captains looked at the gun in Quade’s hands.
“The man who fired from that window was the same one who killed John Hocker,” said Olinger.
“Gaylord signaling again,” said Jackson by the window.
Olinger stepped to the window, looked across to union headquarters. “Spiess is alive, but badly wounded,” he translated. “Five of our boys got hurt, two killed. Sheriff Spiess has sent the call to the governor. Two companies of Guardsmen will be here this evening.”
Pete Walsh and Ford Smith swore lustily. Steve Murphy’s forehead washboarded. “That’ll mean an investigation, huh?”
Olinger shrugged. “I don’t see how we can prevent it. I’m only hoping — Damn!” He was still looking out of the window. “The chief of police wants to know if he can come in to look for Hocker. Gaylord signals he insists.”
“We can’t let the cops in,” said Pete Walsh. “Tell Gaylord no. We’ll stick. We agreed to sit down until Bartlett gave in.”
Olinger got his flags, signaled. After a moment there was a reply. “Gaylord’s coming over.”
“Ah,” said Henry Jackson, sardonically. “The big mucky-muck is going to risk crossing the road.”
Andy Gaylord did come over. He was a small man but a dynamic one. His speech was as crisp as his body. He greeted the strike chieftains briefly, then jerked his head toward Oliver Quade.
“Who’s this?”
“An innocent bystander,” said Quade. “I happened to be in the plant yesterday when the strike was called and the boys wouldn’t let me out.”
“Thin story,” snapped Gaylord. “You’re probably one of Bartlett’s spies. Somebody’s been in touch with him… Where’s Hocker, Olinger?”
“Dead. Murdered.”
Gaylord cursed. “That’s what Bartlett thought. Who did it? The same one who fired that shot at Spiess?”
Olinger nodded. At that moment Ruth Bartlett came into the office. “Bob!” she cried. “Martha—” Then she saw Andy Gaylord.
Andy Gaylord’s eyes flashed sparks. “What’s she doing here?”
Olinger looked surprised. “Why, you know there are fifty girls sitting down here.”
“Yes, but this is Bartlett’s daughter!”
Bob Olinger reeled back as if struck with a fist. “Bartlett’s what?”
“Daughter. She’s Ruth Bartlett. You didn’t know?… You are, aren’t you?”
Ruth Bartlett’s nostrils flared. “Yes. But—”
“Ruth!” cried Olinger. “You — how? Oh, hell!”
His face was strained — and angry, Quade thought. He knew then that Olinger was in love with the girl. In love with Ruth Larson, rather. He couldn’t afford to love Ruth Bartlett.
“I’ve been working in the plant for two months,” said Ruth Bartlett. “No one knew who I am. I’ve been living with Martha.”
“There’s your spy, Olinger!” Jackson said.
“No,” Quade said. “I recognized Miss Bartlett last night. I believe Miss Bartlett’s intentions here are okay. She’s siding with you, Olinger. She isn’t the spy!”
“What the hell do you know about it?” snarled Pete Walsh. “For all we know you’re in Bartlett’s pay yourself, you—”
“Look,” said Oliver Quade patiently. “You can say anything you like to me. But not in front of Miss Bartlett.”
“Miss Bartlett,” Gaylord said. “You’ve got to leave at once.”
“She can’t go!” said Smith. “She knows about Hocker!”
“It’s about that I came here, now,” cried Ruth. “That is, not about Mr. Hocker, but Martha! I can’t find her anywhere.”
Quade looked at Olinger and saw fear in the young strike leader’s eyes. Olinger said, with forced coolness: “Take a look in the cafeteria, Ruth. I think I saw her there a little while ago.
“I looked there a half hour ago. Was it since then?”