§ 65
With these reflections Peter went back to the American House, where
McGivney had promised to meet him that evening. Peter went to Room 427,
and being tired after the previous night's excitement, he lay down and
fell fast asleep. And when again he opened his eyes, he wasn't sure
whether it was a nightmare, or whether he had died in his sleep and gone
to hell with Mr. Godd. Somebody was shaking him, and bidding him in a
gruff voice, "Wake up!" Peter opened his eyes, and saw that it was
McGivney; and that was all right, it was natural that McGivney should be
waking him up. But what was this? McGivney's voice was angry,
McGivney's face was dark and glowering, and — most incredible
circumstance of all — McGivney had a revolver in his hand, and was
pointing it into Peter's face!
It really made it much harder for Peter to get awake,
because he couldn't believe that he was awake; also it
made it harder for McGivney to get any sense out of him,
because his jaw hung down, and he stared with terrified
eyes into the muzzle of the revolver.
"M-m-my God, Mr. McGivney! w-w-what's the matter?"
"Get up here!" hissed the rat-faced man, and he added a vile
name. He gripped Peter by the lapel of his coat and half jerked him to
his feet, still keeping the muzzle of the revolver in Peter's face. And
poor Peter, trying desperately to get his wits together, thought of half
a dozen wild guesses one after another. Could it be that McGivney had
heard him denouncing Mr. Godd and proclaiming himself a Red? Could it be
that some of the Reds had framed up something on Peter? Could it be that
McGivney had gone just plain crazy; that Peter was in the room with a
maniac armed with a revolver?
"Where did you put that money I gave you the other
day;" demanded McGivney, and added some more vile
names.
Instantly, of course, Peter was on the defensive. No
matter how frightened he might be, Peter would never fail
to hang on to his money.
"I-I s-s-spent it, Mr. McGivney."
"You're lying to me!"
"N-n-no."
"Tell me where you put that money!" insisted the man, and his
face was ugly with anger, and the muzzle of the revolver seemed to be
trembling with anger. Peter started to insist that he had spent every
cent. "Make him cough up, Hammett!" said McGivney; and Peter for the
first time realized that there was another man in the room. His eyes had
been so fascinated by the muzzle of the revolver that he hadn't taken a
glance about.
Hammett was a big fellow, and he strode up to Peter and grabbed
one of Peter's arms, and twisted it around behind Peter's back and up
between Peter's shoulders. When Peter started to scream, Hammett
clapped his other hand over his mouth, and so Peter knew that it was all
up. He could not hold on to money at that cost. When McGivney asked
him, "Will you tell me where it is?" Peter nodded, and tried to answer
thru his nose.
So Hammett took his hand from his mouth. "Where
is it?" And Peter replied, "In my right shoe."
Hammett unlaced the shoe and took it off, and pulled out the
inside sole, and underneath was a little flat package wrapped in tissue
paper, and inside the tissue paper was the thousand dollars that
McGivney had given Peter, and also the three hundred dollars which Peter
had saved from Nelse Ackerman's present, and two hundred dollars which
he had saved from his salary. Hammett counted the money, and McGivney
stuck it into his pocket, and then he commanded Peter to put on his shoe
again. Peter obeyed with his trembling fingers, meantime keeping his eye
in part on the revolver and in part on the face of the rat.
"W-w-what's the matter, Mr. McGivney?"
"You'll find out in time," was the answer. "Now, you
march downstairs, and remember, I've got this gun on you,
and there's eight bullets in it, and if you move a finger I'll
put them all into you."
So Peter and McGivney and Hammett went down in the elevator of
the hotel, and out of doors, and into an automobile. Hammett drove, and
Peter sat in the rear seat with McGivney, who had the revolver in his
coat pocket, his finger always on the trigger and the muzzle always
pointed into Peter's middle. So Peter obeyed all
orders promptly, and stopped asking questions because he
found he could get no answers.
Meantime he was using his terrified wits on the problem. The
best guess he could make was that Guffey had decided to believe Joe
Angell's story instead of Peter's. But then, why all this gun-play,
this movie stuff? Peter gave up in despair; and it was just as well, for
what had happened lay entirely beyond the guessing power of Peter's mind
or any other mind.
