Bear Trap

without humor. "You don't like scalders, eh? Get a bigenough dose, and you're dead, Mariel--but I guess you know that, don'tyou? Think about it. But don't think too long. What about the bonds?"

  "Ingersoll has been trying to get Dartmouth Bearing Corporation on legalgrounds for years. Something about the government bonds they held,bought during the China wars. You know, surplus profits--DartmouthBearing could beat the taxes by buying bonds. Harry Dartmouth thoughtIngersoll's files had some legal dope against them--he was afraid you'dtry to make trouble for the company--"

  "So he hired his little pixie, eh? Seems to me you'd have enough on yourhands editing that rag--"

  Mariel shot him an injured look. "'_Fighting World_' has the secondlargest magazine circulation in the country. It's a good magazine."

  "It's a warmonger propaganda rag," snapped Shandor. He glared at thelittle man. "What's your relation to Ingersoll?"

  "I hated his guts. He was carrying his lily-livered pacifism right tothe White House, and I couldn't see it. So I fought him every inch ofthe way. I'll fight what he stands for now he's dead--"

  Shandor's eyes narrowed. "That was a mistake, Mariel. You weren'tsupposed to know he is dead." He walked over to the little man, whoseface was a shade whiter yet. "Funny," said Shandor quietly. "You say youhated him, but I didn't get that impression at all."

  Mariel's eyes opened wide. "What do you mean?"

  "Everything you wrote for PIB seems to have treated him kindly."

  A shadow of deep concern crossed Mariel's face, as though for the firsttime he found himself in deep water. "PIB told me what to write, and Iwrote it. You know how they work."

  "Yes, I know how they work. I also know that most of your writing, whileyou were doing Public Information Board work, was never ordered by PIB.Ever hear of Ben Chamberlain, Mariel? Or Frank Eberhardt? Or JonHarding? Ever hear of them, Mariel?" Shandor's voice cut sharply throughthe room. "Ben Chamberlain wrote for every large circulation magazine inthe country, after the Chinese war. Frank Eberhardt was the man behindAssociated Press during those years. Jon Harding was the silentpublisher of three newspapers in Washington, two in New York, and one inChicago. Ever hear of those men, Mariel?"

  "No, no--"

  "You know damned well you've heard of them. Because _those men were allyou_. Every single one of them--" Shandor was standing close to him,now, and Mariel sat like he had seen a ghost, his lower lip quivering,forehead wet. "No, no, you're wrong--"

  "No, no, I'm right," mocked Shandor. "I've been in the newspaper racketfor a long time, Mariel. I've got friends in PIB--real friends, not theshamus crowd you're acquainted with that'll take you for your lastnickel and then leave you to starve. Never mind how I found out. Youhated Ingersoll so much you handed him bouquets all the time. How aboutit, Mariel? All that writing--you couldn't praise him enough. Boostinghim, beating the drum for him and his policies--every trick and gimmickknown in the propaganda game to give him a boost, make him the people'sdarling--how about it?"

  Mariel was shaking his head, his little eyes nearly popping with fright."It wasn't him," he choked. "Ingersoll had nothing to do with it. It wasDartmouth Bearing. They bought me into the spots. Got me the newspapers,supported me. Dartmouth Bearing ran the whole works, and they told mewhat to write--"

  "Garbage! Dartmouth Bearing--the biggest munitions people in America,and I'm supposed to believe that they told you to go to bat for thecountry's strongest pacifist! What kind of sap do you take me for?"

  "It's true! Ingersoll had nothing to do with it, nothing at all."Mariel's voice was almost pleading. "Look, I don't know what DartmouthBearing had in mind. Who was I to ask questions? You don't realize theirpower, Shandor. Those bonds I spoke of--they hold millions of dollarsworth of bonds! They hold enough bonds to topple the economy of thenation, they've got bonds in the names of ten thousand subsidiarycompanies. They've been telling Federal Economics Commission what to dofor the past ten years! And they're getting us into this war,Shandor--lock, stock and barrel. They pushed for everything they couldget, and they had the money, the power, the men to do whatever theywanted. You couldn't fight them, because they had everything sewed up sotight nobody could approach them--"

  Shandor's mind was racing, the missing pieces beginning, suddenly, tocome out of the haze. The incredible, twisted idea broke through again,staggering him, driving through his mind like icy steel. "Listen,Mariel. I swear I'll kill you if you lie to me, so you'd better tell thetruth. Who put you on my trail? Who told you Ingersoll was dead, andthat I was scraping up Ingersoll's past?"

  The little man twisted his hands, almost in tears. "Harry Dartmouth toldme--"

  "And who told Harry Dartmouth?"

  Mariel's voice was so weak it could hardly be heard. "The girl," hesaid.

  Shandor felt the chill deepen. "And where are the files now?"

  "Dartmouth has them. Probably in Chicago--I expressed them. The girldidn't dare send them direct, for fear you would check, or that she wasbeing watched. I was supposed to pick them up from you, and see to itthat 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 inNevada."

  "And what do they make?"

  "In peacetime--cars. In wartime they make tanks and shells."

  "And their records? Inventories? Shipping orders, and files? Where dothey 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 untildawn, 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 waswhirling as he walked down toward the thoroughfare. Incredulously, hetried to piece the picture together. He had known Dartmouth Bearing wasbig--but that big? Mariel might have been talking nonsense, or he mighthave been reading the Gospel. Shandor hailed a cab, sat back in the seatscratching his head. How big could Dartmouth Bearing be? Could _any_corporation be that big? He thought back, remembering the rash ofpost-war scandals and profit-gouging trials, the anti-trust trials. Inwartime, bars are let down, _no one_ can look with disfavor on thefactories making the weapons. And if one corporation could buy, andexpand, and buy some more--it might be too powerful to be prosecutedafter the war--

  Shandor shook his head, realizing that he was skirting the big issue.Dartmouth Bearing connected up, in some absurd fashion, but there was amissing link. Mariel fit into one side of the puzzle, interlocking withDartmouth. The stolen files might even fit, for that matter. But theidea grew stronger. A great, jagged piece in the middle of the puzzlewas missing--the key piece which would tie everything together. He felthis skin prickle as he thought. An impossible idea--and yet, herealized, if it were true, everything else would fall clearly intoplace--

  He sat bolt upright. It _had_ to be true--

  He leaned forward and gave the cabby the landing field address, then satback, feeling his pulse pounding through his arms and legs. Nervously heswitched on the radio. The dial fell to some jazz music, which hetolerated for a moment or two, then flipped to a news broadcast. Notthat news broadcasts really meant much, but he wanted to hear theIngersoll story release for the day. He listened impatiently to aroundup of local news: David Ingersoll stricken with pneumonia, threeSenators protesting the current tax bill--he brought his attentionaround sharply at the sound of a familiar name--

  "--disappeared from his Chicago home early this morning. Mr. Dartmouthis president of Dartmouth Bearing Corporation, currently engage
d in themanufacture of munitions for Defense, and producing much of themachinery being used in the Moon-rocket in Arizona. Police are followingall possible leads, and are confident that there has been no foul play.

  "On the international scene, the Kremlin is still blocking--" Shandorsnapped off the radio abruptly, his forehead damp. Dartmouthdisappeared, and with him the files--why? And where to go now to findthem? If the idea that was plaguing him was true, sound,