The Smart Set/Volume 25/Issue 1/The Bomb Planters

by Alfred Damon Runyon

 

THE BOMB PLANTERS

By Alfred Damon Runyon

Maybe you remember the time—it wasn't so long ago—that a bomb exploded in a footpath across a vacant lot near the capitol in Callan and an unknown man was killed.

You read in the papers, perhaps, that the chief justice of the State was due to walk across that path, bound for dinner, just as the bomb went off.

He'd struck the head of the path—the explosion was in the middle, a hundred yards from him. Perhaps you recall that he was with his little granddaughter.

The explosion didn't leave anything of that bomb for the smart detectives to examine. If it had they would have found it was the product of the greatest genius in that line the world has ever known—which is me.

You recall the justice didn't know anything about that unknown man—didn't even see him until he heard the explosion and pieces of human flesh commenced raining down upon him.

Well, I knew the unknown. I didn't come forward to identify him when they were moving heaven and earth to find out who he was, for reasons of my own.

They printed a lot of rot about it all in the papers at the time. Hardly a word of what they said was true. They were guessing.

The papers fighting the unions said it was a plan laid by the Middle Amalgamation of Miners to kill the chief justice. The first part of that statement—about the miners—is a lie, but a lot of people believed it, just the same. It was true about the plot against the chief justice.

The papers supporting the unions said it was an accident. They were also away off. I am one of the few men living that know the whole story, and I wouldn't be telling it now if we were not going to Russia and join the nihilists, and by the time this sees the light of day it will be too late for the wooden-headed detectives to find us.

No one had anything to do with that bomb but us, the League of Freedom.

I organized the League of Freedom. There were only a few of us, but what we lacked in numbers we made up in enthusiasm. We used to meet down on Waxahone street right under the noses of the police and carry on our work.

I suppose some people would call us anarchists, but that is neither here nor there. We had nothing to do with the unions; they wouldn't have let us, probably.

It was during the strikes when the tyrant capitalists were carrying matters with a high hand, and while we might have done the unionists a lot of good, they went about their plans with so much publicity that we dared not offer our services. They objected to what we called violence.

So we worked in secret—Hector Mattei, the Italian fruit vender from Chicago, a good man, but stupid; Mack Rehak, the Austrian, willing, but unbalanced in the head, as shall be shown; Antonio Masseni, a Sicilian and a bright fellow; Pablo Martinez, a Spaniard, who foolishly killed his wife and then got sent to the asylum; and myself—Master Workman of them all.

How we became associated is much too long a story to tell. It started with an idle discussion in a boarding-house on Blake street where we were all staying, and it came to be a brotherhood of blood.

As I remember, the discussion was over the strike, and we suddenly found that we were all agreed as to the best means of ending it with a victory for the unions. Our opinion was death to the leaders of the oppressionists, starting with the governor and going straight down the line of mine-owners.

“Well, why not?” spoke up Pablo, the Spaniard, and we all looked at one another, startled at the bigness of the idea. Why not, indeed?

Thus the League of Freedom sprang into being.

I need not go into details concerning our organization. It developed that Mattei, Masseni, Martinez and myself were no strangers to the work. I can still recall Chicago and the Haymarket; Masseni had been in New Orleans; Mattei knew of Naples and New York; and Martinez had fled Madrid because of that misdirected bomb intended for the young king. Rehak was the only newcomer into the fold.

As I have said, he was willing. He was an enormous fellow, as stolid as a smokestack. I don't believe he ever had an original idea in his life. He was a smelter hand, but only worked enough to keep himself in tobacco and beer after paying his board. With it all, however, he was absolutely fearless. He did but little talking and a whole lot of acting when it became necessary, and, strange as it may seem, he was the one I selected as my first lieutenant. He did what he was told and asked no questions.

Pablo Martinez first suggested the idea that started us to work. We had talked and planned for some weeks along different lines. Practically we had decided upon the then governor as our first offering to freedom, when Martinez said:

“The fountain head of the whole iniquitous system is not the governor, not the State militia, not the mine-owners, but the court which gives them the power to do as they do. And the head of that court is, in effect, the primary cause. Gentlemen, consider the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court!”

True enough! We at once remembered the many decisions handed down by the highest tribunal in the State sustaining the course of the governor and the militia. Here indeed was the chief foe to society.

From that moment the chief justice was a marked man. Of course our plan did not immediately develop, but he was never lost sight of in our mind. We spoke of others, but always we reverted to the chief justice.

It was I who finally evolved the idea of the plant. In my idle moments, which were not few, I used to go up to the capitol to make observations. I saw the chief justice leave the building at noon on several occasions and noted that he was always alone; that he always took a footpath across a big vacant lot leading down to the main street. There he took a tramway car.

Sitting on the capitol steps one day and looking off toward the mountains, it occurred to me that a bomb placed in that footpath and accurately timed might—well, the idea almost took my breath away. It was magnificent!

The only difficulty seemed to be the question of time. So, without saying anything to my companions at first, I went to the capitol daily at noon and watched.

With the accuracy of the sun the chief justice came down the north steps and started toward the city at five minutes past twelve. He was a hale old man, who walked briskly, and in three minutes he would reach the centre of the path in the vacant lot. He was always alone. Few others used the path at that particular moment. Providence seemed to adjust the whole matter.

I timed the chief justice for many days and he never failed me. I made mental note of a certain spot in the path, covering a radius of about twelve feet. There might be a few seconds' variance, but never a whole minute in the time from day to day that the chief justice struck it.

I was planning a time bomb, understand. Then a characteristic of the chief justice—a simple thing it was—caused me to change my plan. I noticed that he always walked with his eyes upon the ground. He would frequently stoop and pick up some object which he would immediately cast away again. It was some time before I fully understood this, and then I discovered that the old man's eyes were attracted by any bright object on the ground they might encounter, and that he would pick it up. It was force of habit, I suppose.

I tried him on this point a half-dozen times, because it gave me an idea. I dropped a small pocket-knife in the path just before he was due to cross it. He picked it up, examined it and put it in his pocket. I dropped a small mirror, then a bright bit of ribbon, and again a coin. He picked up every one.

It was an unconscious habit with him, I suppose, that close inspection of the ground as he hastened homeward, but it occurred to me that it was simply another adjustment of Providence.

I confided my plan to my companions, and I was at once a hero in their eyes. We had no time to lose, however, as court would soon adjourn for the Summer. So we set to work on our plant. It was my brain which conceived the idea and it was my ingenuity which fashioned the bomb. It seemed simple, but oh, it was a marvel of genius!

A common, cheap alarm-clock and a pound of dynamite would have answered the purpose of a time bomb, but I used nitro-glycerine, which I myself boiled out of dynamite. Some fine copper wire and a dry battery comprised the rest of the bomb, all carefully enclosed in a tin box.

From the box led a tiny wire. The slightest jerk on this wire would release the mechanism inside and explode the bomb.

To make assurance doubly sure we made a duplicate bomb, and one Sunday went out and tried it. We planted the bomb in the ground with the loose wire sticking out. I tied a light string to the wire and then we retired a couple of hundred yards. I gave the string the lightest sort of jerk. The explosion was instantaneous. It was not loud, but it raised the earth for twenty feet around to an enormous height and left a hole big enough to bury a team of mules.

It was admirable. We went back to the city with joy in our hearts.

We selected the following Saturday as the day for justice. I picked Rehak as the man to plant the bomb, and the big Austrian was delighted. I gave him the most minute instructions and he understood. He was to plant the bomb at four o'clock in the morning when there was small chance of detection, but I took him with me that afternoon to look over the ground and point out the exact spot where I wanted the bomb placed so there would be no mistake.

We were walking quietly up Sixteenth street and started to cross at Broadway near the scene of our proposed plant. They call this “Dead Man's Curve” in Callan, and well they may, because the automobiles, street-cars and bicycles whiz past there in a terrifying manner.

I noticed a young woman and a golden-haired little girl, of perhaps six years, coming across the street toward us. The child suddenly ran ahead of the woman a little ways.

Then I heard the muffled roar of an auto horn and a scream from the woman. A huge touring-car was sweeping down upon the child at tremendous speed. The babe had stopped, apparently dazed. The woman stood inert, staring. There didn't seem a chance in the world for the child, as my mind recalls the panorama, when Rehak, with a low growl, propelled his huge frame forward, lifted the child with a sweep of his long arms out of harm's way, and then went down beneath the impact of the great machine himself. The woman at once fainted.

The machine came to a sudden stop—I'm surprised it was not totally wrecked after hitting Rehak—and an old man climbed hastily out of the tonneau.

It was none other than the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. His chauffeur sat in the driver's seat, looking at the scene in a bored manner. The child was unhurt and the woman quickly recovered, but Rehak had a broken shoulder.

The chief justice insisted that he take him to a hospital at once. A big crowd was gathering and, while I felt like objecting, I did not want to create a scene or start an inquiry by the police as to Rehak's identity, so I nodded to Rehak and we all climbed into the machine, the woman and the child too, because the chief justice insisted on taking them to their homes and because the lady was also anxious to see how badly Rehak was hurt.

The chief justice, myself and the driver crowded into the front seat; Rehak, who had said not a word all this time, was in the rear seat with the woman, who held the little girl on her lap.

The chief justice ordered the driver to go to a hospital and to run slowly so as not to jar Rehak. I don't believe the big Austrian felt much pain, but you couldn't tell from his ox-like face. He was leaving everything to me.

The chief justice did most of the talking as we ran along the avenue. He seemed all upset. He berated the driver for running fast, especially turning corners, and I believe he was really sorry for the accident.

At the hospital we had to wait in the reception-room a short time while they were getting a place ready for Rehak. They knew the chief justice at the hospital, because one of the sisters called him by name, and he seemed to be a person of some importance there, from the way they bustled around.

Rehak was sitting down, the justice hovering over him like an old woman. The Austrian kept watching me as though looking for instructions. The woman and the little girl, who had now recovered from her fright and was taking an interest in affairs, were also in the room. I noticed that the woman, who was the child's mother, was constantly looking at the chief justice in a curious fashion.

The child was watching Rehak, whose burly form completely hid a large rocking-chair and hung over, in wide-eyed astonishment. I don't imagine for a minute that she realized what he had done for her, but something about the huge Austrian seemed to attract the child. She did seem to know that he was hurt, however, for there was a world of compassion in her gaze. Finally she went up to him, laid a tiny hand on his knee and murmured:

“Nice man.”

A curious startled look came over Rehak's stolid face as he gazed at the child and then looked inquiringly at me.

“Kiss me,” the youngster said in a commanding tone, as of one accustomed to being obeyed.

“Why, Beth!” remonstrated the mother, astonished.

“Kiss me!” ordered the child again, looking up at Rehak confidingly.

The Austrian shot another curious glance at me, an indescribable expression on his face—like a big Newfoundland dog submitting to the caresses of a puppy. Then, with no little pain pictured in his face, he leaned slowly forward and kissed the child on the lips.

“Bless my soul!” said the chief justice. The child danced back to her mother and a nurse broke up the tableau by entering and announcing that they were ready for the patient. I whispered a few words of instruction to Rehak, telling him to give just as little information about himself as possible, and then we waited to hear the result of the doctor's examination.

While we were sitting in the reception-room the chief justice turned to the woman and said:

“May I inquire your name? Mine is Mahlon—John Mahlon.”

She turned slightly pale, then smiled and replied:

“Mine is also Mahlon—Mrs. John Mahlon, Junior.”

The old man hopped right out of his chair.

“Madam, are you jesting?” he demanded, getting really excited.

“Not at all,” she said, quite cool now. “I am your daughter-in-law and this is your grandchild, Beth. I didn't know it, however, until the sister called you by name.”

All this was Greek to me, of course, and they paid as little attention to me as if I had not been there.

The old man was pretty white above his choker collar as he stood looking first at the woman and then at the child. He walked over to the little girl, who gazed up at him, clear-eyed and confiding, took her face between his hands and looked long into her eyes.

“Well, well,” he said at last, and in a tired way, “Jack, sure enough. How long have you been here?” he asked the woman.

“Nearly six months,” she said. “Jack is still out in Goldfield and has done very well. He sent us here to establish a home, as he is going to sell out and come to Callan as soon as possible.”

“Does he ever speak of me?” the old man asked softly.

“Oh, yes; quite often,” she said. “He was going to call on you as soon as he came and show you your grandchild. Seven years is such a long time that he hoped you had forgiven him for—for—marrying—me,” she continued rather disconnectedly.

She seemed on the verge of tears now. The old man put his hand on her head, saying quietly:

“My child, I had never seen you. Of course I was much displeased with Jack because I—he—well, because I had other plans. I beg your pardon,” and the old fellow leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “We will send him a joint telegram tonight,” he added.

The child tugged at the coat-tails of the chief justice.

“Kiss me!” she commanded, just as she had spoken to Rehak.

“Bless my heart!” ejaculated the chief justice, while the woman sat down and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

You can gather as much from all this as I did. They didn't seem to realize that I was there at all, and I was too much interested in the little tableau to raise a disturbance. Once I felt like offering a suggestion, and that was when the old man remarked:

“Your new home shall be with me,” he said. “After Jack's mother died I kept the old house going for his sake; but after he left I closed it—I thought for good. We'll have a real old-time house-warming.”

I had a mind to mention that it would be wholly unnecessary, as he would be unable to be present.

The entrance of a doctor finally relieved the situation and brought them back to life.

“He is not hurt very much,” said Sawbones. “Just a broken shoulder. He can go home in the morning.”

“The bill comes to me,” said the chief justice, and we started to go. Not for a lot of money would I have gone back to town with them in the machine. I made some excuse about living near the hospital and escaped, while they were still smiling at each other, hardly hearing my protestations.

 

With Rehak in the hospital it seemed as though we would have to postpone our scheme, but Pablo Martinez and the others, after hearing my story, volunteered to plant the bomb. I decided that Martinez was the man, and early the following morning he took the tin box and a small trowel, and placed the bomb beneath the ground in the footpath. He buried it about a foot, then scattered twigs over the spot so the fresh earth would not be apparent.

The tiny wire, bent to a little hook at the end, was left sticking out, but in such a way that it did not show.

The rest of the job was mine.

I bought a woman's pocketbook. It was one of these affairs resembling a small suit-case, which the women were all carrying then, and I paid a good price for it, too. I tied a piece of red ribbon in a bowknot to the handle so it would be all the more conspicuous.

With the pocketbook under my coat I went to the capitol shortly after eleven o'clock, took a look in the Supreme Court and saw it was in session, with the chief justice presiding; then loafed about the war relic museum in the basement until twenty minutes past eleven.

At that time I went down the footpath to where the bomb was planted. The only people in sight were over on Colfax, a half-block away, and they were paying no attention to a lone pedestrian taking a short cut. I knew where to look for the wire end, of course. As soon as I located it I stooped and gently secured the hook in one of the rings which fastened the handle of the pocketbook. Then I went on, making a swift circuit, and returning to the capitol took up my station on the north steps.

There was nothing at all calculated to attract suspicion in this. Scores of others were sitting about on the steps and benches, enjoying the sun of a glorious turquoise morning. My eyes kept turning toward the footpath, however, and I was in a sweat of nervous anxiety. You can imagine the chances of the thing.

It was taking the enormous risk of about 199,999 to 1, for the reason that I was depending on a solitary person out of a two hundred thousand population crossing the path and picking up that pocketbook.

The only basis for such a risk was the fact that it had so happened during my observations, but as I sat on the steps I suddenly realized how casual those observations had been.

But the die was cast and I could only sit and wait, looking at my watch about every second.

The justice was behind-time. As the minute hand slipped around to twelve and then on to five minutes past, my heart almost stopped beating. A couple of men came out of the big doors and started down the steps as though they were going to take the path. Then they changed their direction. A man and woman coming from the other way almost turned into the path. You can imagine the condition of my nerves under these circumstances.

Six minutes past twelve, then the doors again swung outward, and the chief justice appeared, holding one door wide. Out tripped his golden-haired grandchild.

I almost sank exhausted, and for a moment I was so terror-stricken that I wonder I did not rush forward and shout an incoherent warning. Common sense came to my rescue and I recovered.

“Root and branch,” I thought. “So be it. Providence!” Down the steps they went, neither noticing me.

About the same moment I noticed a big fellow, whose left arm was bandaged to his side, and whose appearance was strangely familiar to me, appear at one side of the lot at a right angle to the path.

I watched him for a moment and made out Mack Rehak.

“Ah-ha!” I thought. “Faithful old Mack! Couldn't remain away when he knew the good work was going on.”

It immediately occurred to me that Martinez, Masseni and Mattei were probably loitering about somewhere ready to join the crowd after the explosion.

There is a fascination about seeing the result of your plans.

Meantime the chief justice and the child were headed for the path. They were walking more slowly than the chief justice would have done had he been alone.

I was mighty thankful I had not placed a time bomb. I was also glad that the chief justice had the child with him, as I noticed he did not seem to be looking at the ground as was his custom, but at the child. The little girl, however, would be pretty certain to notice that bright bit of ribbon.

Curse that kid, now! She had commenced to run out ahead of the justice, just as she ran ahead of her mother the day of the automobile accident. She kept about twenty yards ahead of him, dancing rather than walking along.

If she picked up the pocketbook with him that far back I feared it would leave him out of range.

And that fool Rehak! What was the man doing?

He had started diagonally across the lot toward the path, and he was hurrying. His gait was a shambling run, and he seemed to move with difficulty, probably on account of his shoulder. He reached the path near the centre and looked around.

His hesitancy was no mystery to me. I knew he was hunting for the spot where the bomb was placed. Even then I could not divine his purpose.

The thought flashed through my brain that perhaps he intended making the execution of the chief justice certain by pulling off the bomb himself, and becoming a martyr to the cause.

Then that child dancing along in front of the old man caught my eye and I saw again that smile and look on Rehak's face when he kissed her at the hospital.

“Oh, damn that kid!” I murmured, because I saw it all.

The next moment Rehak had found the pocketbook. He dropped on his knees and I could see him fumbling clumsily at it with his one free hand. He knew the mechanism all right, but he didn't know the delicacy it required to fool with that hook.

The justice had struck the head of the path, the child still in front of him. They were far out of range of the bomb.

I consoled myself with the thought that Rehak probably only meant to remove the pocketbook for the time being, just to save the kid, and that he did not mean to expose the plot, but rather postpone matters until we could get the old man alone.

I still believe that to have been his intention.

I heard a muffled roar and the pathway seemed to belly upward in the middle, as if an enormous lid had been suddenly lifted from a force beneath, and—well, I got out of that without delay and read about it in the extras.

Rehak didn't have the requisite delicacy of touch in that one hand.

I understand the child thought it was some new game gotten up for her special benefit, like Fourth-of-July fireworks, by her new and wholly delightful grandfather.

What he thought about it took columns to tell.