Part 5 (1/2)
The little man twisted his hands, almost in tears. ”Harry Dartmouth told me--”
”And who told Harry Dartmouth?”
Mariel's voice was so weak it could hardly be heard. ”The girl,” he said.
Shandor felt the chill deepen. ”And where are the files now?”
”Dartmouth has them. Probably in Chicago--I expressed them. The girl didn't dare send them direct, for fear you would check, or that she was being watched. I was supposed to pick them up from you, and see to it that you didn't remember--”
Shandor clenched his fist. ”Where are Dartmouth's plants located?”
”The main plants are in Chicago and Newark. They've got a smaller one in Nevada.”
”And what do they make?”
”In peacetime--cars. In wartime they make tanks and sh.e.l.ls.”
”And their records? Inventories? s.h.i.+pping orders, and files? Where do they keep them?”
”I--I don't know. You aren't thinking of--”
”Never mind what I'm thinking of, just answer up. Where are they?”
”All the administration offices are in Chicago. But they'd kill you, Shandor--you wouldn't stand a chance. They can't be fought, I tell you.”
Shandor nodded to Prex, and started for the door. ”Keep him here until dawn, then go on home, and forget what you heard. If anything happens, give me a ring at my home.” He glared at Mariel. ”Don't worry about me, bud--they won't be doing anything to me when I get through with them.
They just won't be doing anything at all.”
The idea had crystallized as he talked to Mariel. Shandor's mind was whirling as he walked down toward the thoroughfare. Incredulously, he tried to piece the picture together. He had known Dartmouth Bearing was big--but that big? Mariel might have been talking nonsense, or he might have been reading the Gospel. Shandor hailed a cab, sat back in the seat scratching his head. How big could Dartmouth Bearing be? Could _any_ corporation be that big? He thought back, remembering the rash of post-war scandals and profit-gouging trials, the anti-trust trials. In wartime, bars are let down, _no one_ can look with disfavor on the factories making the weapons. And if one corporation could buy, and expand, and buy some more--it might be too powerful to be prosecuted after the war--
Shandor shook his head, realizing that he was skirting the big issue.
Dartmouth Bearing connected up, in some absurd fas.h.i.+on, but there was a missing link. Mariel fit into one side of the puzzle, interlocking with Dartmouth. The stolen files might even fit, for that matter. But the idea grew stronger. A great, jagged piece in the middle of the puzzle was missing--the key piece which would tie everything together. He felt his skin p.r.i.c.kle as he thought. An impossible idea--and yet, he realized, if it were true, everything else would fall clearly into place--
He sat bolt upright. It _had_ to be true--
He leaned forward and gave the cabby the landing field address, then sat back, feeling his pulse pounding through his arms and legs. Nervously he switched on the radio. The dial fell to some jazz music, which he tolerated for a moment or two, then flipped to a news broadcast. Not that news broadcasts really meant much, but he wanted to hear the Ingersoll story release for the day. He listened impatiently to a roundup of local news: David Ingersoll stricken with pneumonia, three Senators protesting the current tax bill--he brought his attention around sharply at the sound of a familiar name--
”--disappeared from his Chicago home early this morning. Mr. Dartmouth is president of Dartmouth Bearing Corporation, currently engaged in the manufacture of munitions for Defense, and producing much of the machinery being used in the Moon-rocket in Arizona. Police are following all possible leads, and are confident that there has been no foul play.
”On the international scene, the Kremlin is still blocking--” Shandor snapped off the radio abruptly, his forehead damp. Dartmouth disappeared, and with him the files--why? And where to go now to find them? If the idea that was plaguing him was true, sound, valid--he'd _have_ to have the files. His whole body was wet with perspiration as he reached the landing field.
The trip to the Library of Congress seemed endless, yet he knew that the Library wouldn't be open until 8:00 anyway. Suddenly he felt a wave of extreme weariness sweep over him--when had he last slept? Bored, he snapped the telephone switch and rang PIB offices for his mail. To his surprise, John Hart took the wire, and exploded in his ear, ”Where in h.e.l.l have you been? I've been trying to get you all night. Listen, Tom, drop the Ingersoll story cold, and get in here. The faster the better.”
Shandor blinked. ”Drop the story? You're crazy!”
”_Get in here!_” roared Hart. ”From now on you've _really_ got a job.
The Berlin Conference blew up tonight, Tom--high as a kite. _We're at war with Russia--_”
Carefully, Shandor plopped the receiver down on its hook, his hands like ice. Just one item first, he thought, just one thing I've got to know.