Duff rolled his unlighted cigar to the other side of his mouth and chuckled effusively. “They let their men go out on strike just a few days too soon to catch us unawares,” he commented sagely.
“Their strike was a joke,” sneered the president of the International Investment Corporation. “There isn’t a doubt now that they precipitated it with a view to keeping every tug tied up until after our contract time for having the mills running. The rest of their plot was obvious: Once the government had nullified our coming rights on these limits the North Star would come into re-possession of them automatically. Then, with no raw product to draw from, we would have been forced to sell our mill equipment to them at their own price and our mill building would remain a vast white elephant. We slipped a big one over on them when I put through the deal that took away the machinery they had on order. That’s why they were so keen on getting us into a corner where we’d have to let them have that same machinery for a song. The North Star’s middle name is Revenge—and now they are going to get their bellyful of it.”
“And this strike was the trump card they kept hidden up their sleeve all summer,” amended Duff.
“Sure it was. But it was a mighty crude piece of work, and I wouldn’t be surprised if your oily friend, J. J. Slack, loses his high-salaried job over the head of it.” Gildersleeve smiled grimly at the prospect. “You see, the North Star evidently figured on a long-drawn arbitration that would keep the strike hanging fire until the time was up for delivery of the poles. They were depending on Slack’s prestige in politics being powerful enough to prevent the provincial authorities from forcing the issue. It was all a dismal failure, and I’d give much to see the Honourable Slack’s face one week from to-day when the Kam City Pulp and Paper Mills has its official opening with members of the provincial cabinet present as our official guests.”
A perplexed shadow crossed Duff’s face. “Come to think of it, Slack didn’t seem much upset about it this afternoon,” he suggested dubiously. “In fact, he really acted as though the North Star had gained a victory instead of us.”
“Slack’s shallow brain doesn’t fully comprehend what it all means,” waived Gildersleeve. “All he sees is the peanut politics—the prestige the settlement of the strike will give him with the labour vote. It is A. C. Smith, superintendent of these camps, and the only member of the North Star executive in personal touch with the outfit who finance the company, who will give him an uncomfortable hour over the clumsy failure that’s been made of this piece of trickery. Smith’s the slippery eel of this concern I intend to land in the net once we’ve turned the North Star inside out. Once we’ve got the upper hand on the North Shore we will wield the political whip with a commission of inquiry that will expose the North Star and force them to a show-down.”
“Be careful,” cautioned Duff looking furtively behind him along the dock. “One can’t tell around here—”
“Shucks, man, there’s nothing to fear now; I’ve trimmed the claws of the North Star and they’re powerless even if they did know the hand we’re about to play.” Gildersleeve lowered his voice: “Right now I’ve got a man ferreting out their secret layout up in the hills over there. But I’ll tell you about that after we go up to our shack. Come let’s go over and drop in on Inspector Little.”
Reference to the settlement of the strike, to the surprise of Gildersleeve and Duff, brought no elation into the face of the police inspector. He merely continued to drum lightly on the little table with a bit of amethyst rock he was using as a paper weight. When he spoke his brows were puckered and he kept his eyes centred on the table. “I’m not at all satisfied with things,” he complained. “We are out here to do our duty as we find it, but”—and he looked straight up into the eyes of Gildersleeve when he said it—“but I’ve a bit of a hunch that one or the other of the two companies interested in the operations on these limits is not playing square with us.”
Gildersleeve started. “Just what do you mean, Inspector?” he demanded.