And then, in the midst of it, Henry Jackson dashed up to Olinger. “Bob! Two carloads of National Guard officers just rolled up outside. They’re taking over!”
Major Parker of the National Guard came up to the Bartlett plant an hour later. Olinger, Quade, Jackson, Walsh and Murphy met the officer by the office entrance.
“I’ve just conferred with Gaylord, the union leader,” the major announced crisply. “Two companies of my men will be here within the hour. You understand, we’re here merely to preserve law and order. Martial law hasn’t been declared. We will not interfere with the strike in any way. That is up to the civil authorities.”
“What about us here in the plant?” asked Olinger.
“You remain in status quo,” replied the officer. “What’s already happened — that’s in the hands of the civil authorities. But from now on, preventing violence is our task.”
Olinger waved toward the street. “What about our pickets?”
“Only enough will be permitted so they won’t obstruct traffic — about twenty.”
“And suppose Bartlett tries again to run in his strikebreakers?”
Major Parker shook his head. “Legally, he can bring in men to work in his plant. But I’ve strongly advised him to avoid trouble. He told me strikebreakers wouldn’t come in.”
“Good!” said Bob Olinger. “Then there shouldn’t be any more trouble.”
When the Major had walked away Quade said softly to Olinger: “No more trouble? You forget, we’ve still got a murderer running around loose in here. He’s killed twice, and he’ll kill again if we don’t get him first.”
Olinger nodded grimly.
Henry Jackson stepped up to Quade and whispered, “I’ve found something in the foundry, Mr. Quade. Something important.”
“What?”
Jackson sighed. “Better come along and see. I’d rather the others didn’t know just yet.”
The foundry was in the rear of the plant. Quade let Jackson walk through the door. He started to follow — and then the world exploded on Quade’s head. He toppled into oblivion.
He came to the hard way. Pain lanced from his head, into his neck and shoulders, down into his body. But deep down in his indomitable unconsciousness a clarion call urged him on. He tore open his eyes and almost swooned again from the pain the effort caused.
He moved his muscles and then suddenly he was fully conscious. He discovered that he was lying on a concrete floor and that his arms and legs were tightly bound, his arms behind his back.
Acrid fumes stung Quade’s nostrils. He saw then that he was in the foundry. The strong odor was sulphuric acid, used extensively in a brass foundry. Five feet away from Quade, lay Henry Jackson, similarly trussed. Blood was smeared on the strike captain’s face, but he was conscious.
Quade looked steadily at him. “You, too?”
“He must have been hiding just outside the foundry door. I stepped through just ahead of you. I heard a thud as he hit you, started to turn and then he hit me.”
“You didn’t see his face?”
“No. When I came to a minute ago, I found myself like this.”
Quade was fully conscious now and the pain in his head was lessening. “What was there here in the foundry you wanted to show me?”
“A bomb. I accidentally discovered it. It was there on the bench. It’s gone, now!”
Quade looked at the work bench. His eyes went higher then and he saw a wall clock. It registered 3:45.
“The Guard’s due here at four o’clock. I guess the bomb’s intended for them. And then there’ll be holy hell to pay. Jackson, when you asked me to come here to the foundry I suspected a trap. That’s why I let you walk ahead, isn’t it?”
“I guessed a trap too. Well, you know that it wasn’t me, anyway.”
“Oh, no,” said Quade. “I know now that it was.”
“Who?”
“You’ve been much too clever, Jackson. When all the others were squawking about this and that, you were always the noble one.”
“You’re crazy. Olinger held out for peace—”
“Yeah, but you’re not Olinger. He’s an idealist.”
“If I’m supposed to be the villain of the piece, Quade, how come I’m tied up here beside you?”
“Like I said, your damnable cleverness. You made Smith sore at me because I discredited him with the workers. He had Napoleon ideas. Then, to have suspicion thrown away from you, you had him scratch you up a bit and tie you and leave you here a while beside me.”
Jackson sighed heavily. “You’re too smart, Quade. But I provided for that, too.” He kicked upwards with his bound feet, until they touched his fingers. Quade, watching, saw him dig a finger nail into his shoe and pull out a tiny blade. Jackson, looking at Quade, grinned sardonically.
“I had this ready, just in case.” He sawed his bound wrists against the blade. It cut through the rope. Jackson’s hands came free and he pulled out the blade entirely from the heel and cut through the ropes binding his ankles.
“Since you know, there’s no reason for me to wait here,” he said sardonically. “It was just for an alibi anyway. In about five minutes the bomb’s going off. No one’ll know how it went off. They’ll think someone threw it from a window. Smith, figuring I was tied up here, would never guess I was responsible for it. Now, I’ve a different plan. There’ll be plenty of fighting when the militia charges the plant. Maybe you and Smith can be accidentally killed… So long, Quade! I’ve got something very important to do — since you made me change my plans.”
Jackson came across, kicked Quade viciously in the face and hurried from the foundry.
Quade waited only until the door had slammed after Jackson. He knew the whole thing now. Jackson had planted the bomb during the night, probably buried it in the ground or placed it in a box which was in plain sight and unsuspected. He had counted on being tied up with Quade during the time the bomb went off. Now, he’d be conspicuous around Olinger and the other captains; his hands empty.
Only Quade knew and Quade was a prisoner here in the foundry. No one would think to look for him during the coming excitement. During the height of it, Jackson would come back, finish Quade with a bullet and then remove the ropes from his wrists and ankles. When he was found eventually, he’d be merely “another victim of the riot.”
Quade looked again at the clock and suddenly started rolling his body. He reached the bench, sat up. Then with his back against it and his feet flat on the floor he began edging up. He reached his feet.
On the bench, three feet from the edge, was a copper vessel. From the smell of it Quade knew that it contained sulphuric acid. He turned so his back was to the bench. Then he bent forward and groped behind his back for the vessel of acid. He got hold of it, dragged it to the edge of the bench.
Then, drawing a deep breath, he tilted the vessel and let the acid slosh to the floor. It splashed against his trouser leg, stung through to his legs. There’d be burns there; the acid would eat away the cloth, but that would take hours. And Quade didn’t have hours.
By the weight of the vessel Quade guessed when there was about a half pint or pint left in it. He gripped the thing securely and began hopping. It was quite a feat. Once or twice he almost lost his balance.
He hopped twenty feet or more, then crouched slowly and set the copper vessel on the concrete floor. He straightened, with one hand groped for a water faucet. He found it and hesitated a moment. This was the crucial moment. It might work — and it might not work. If it worked, Quade would suffer intense physical agony. If it didn’t work — a horrible death.
He turned the water faucet. Only for an instant, then turned it back again.