All I could do was to wait and see what broke. She was a woman. Thus far, I’d been pretty lucky with the women in the case. I’d have to trust my luck to hold once more.
I had brought a copy of the morning Bugle back from Cherry’s with me. I looked over the headlines and worked my way back to the editorial page in practically nothing flat.
There was a double column spread of leaded type in a center of the page box. A facsimile of Ellsworth Grange’s signature was stuck on the bottom of it. Black type across the top proclaimed:
I spread the sheet across my knee with a funny feeling in my belly. I knew Grange was the sort to lose all sense of proportion when he waxed editorial.
Undeterred by threats of physical violence from ruthless underworld forces, The BUGLE again is proud to lead a campaign to rid our community of vicious elements which seek to undermine and destroy the most basic elements making for a stable and unsullied society.
Armed with the right, the BUGLE heeds the clarion call of an aroused citizenry and embarks upon this new campaign with all the holy zeal of the Crusaders of old. Fearless in the face of obstacles and anonymous threats of reprisals, the BUGLE leads the van in this new struggle which must be to the death...
Tomorrow this menace will be named in this space. A brief description of some of the methods employed to abase our womanhood will be set forth.
DO NOT FAIL TO READ TOMORROW’S BUGLE. BUY EARLY OR YOU MAY BE TOO LATE. THE MOST SENSATIONAL EXPOSE OF DECADES IS PROMISED IN FORTHCOMING ISSUES. MORE EXCITING THAN A FICTION SERIAL. MORE LURID THAN THE LUCKY LUCIANO AFFAIR IN NEW YORK.
Remember — THE BUGLE IS THE ONLY PAPER ABLE TO BRING YOU THIS DAY-BY-DAY STORY OF STARTLING DEVELOPMENTS, A GRIPPING, REVOLTING STORY, UNPARALLELED IN MODERN ANNALS.
And, it was signed by my managing editor.
I rolled the paper up and tossed it in a corner. It seemed to call for a drink. I took a big one — wondering if Stormy had read the Bugle before calling me. That was something to wonder about. I began god-damning Grange for a stupid, blundering ass. A pompous, moronic idiot.
I went to the phone and called the Bugle. The girl said Grange was in conference. I supposed that meant he was looking in his thesaurus for some more nine-jointed words for tomorrow’s editorial. I had the girl switch me to the city desk, and got Pete. As soon as he heard my voice, he said:
“Before God, Ed, it was all the Old Man’s idea. I tried to talk him out of it but you know how bull-headed he is when he gets what he considers an idea.”
“I want you to get that private file of mine on this story out of his way,” I growled. “There’s dynamite in that if he sticks his nose inside.”
“Hell, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Pete wailed. “There ain’t no private file.”
“I mean these sealed envelopes I’ve been putting away...”
“I know damn’ well what you mean. What I mean is that they’re not sealed any more. Old Fuzzy took the whole caboodle into his private office this morning.”
I hung up. There wasn’t any use boring Pete with the things I had to say about Grange. I got most of them out of my system before calling the office back and telling the girl to get Grange the hell out of conference.
He sounded irritated when he finally got on the other end of the wire. “I’m extremely busy. Who is it calling?”
“Barlow.”
“In-deed? I presume you couldn’t wait to give me your congratulations on this morning’s editorial. Two-fisted stuff, eh Barlow? And that’s only the opening salvo. I’m even now preparing a T-N-T jolt for tomorrow’s first edition.”
“Using my private file on the case, I suppose?”
“Naturally, Barlow, naturally. I’ve discovered some splendid material there. Why, I had no idea...”
“You never had an idea,” I told him. “You’re a damned, big-mouthed fool. I’m through.”
“Now, now, Barlow. That’s not the spirit. Not the old never-say-die of the Bugle. Why, your job has just begun. You’ve made a splendid beginning, but...”
“Did you hear what I called you a moment ago?”
“I’m willing to forgive and forget, Barlow. We’re just all one big happy family...”
I asked: “Do you want to go on living?”
He started out with a blustering, “Now, now...” that trailed off to a weak: “What was that you said?”
“Do you want to be alive tomorrow morning?”
It finally sank through his thick head that I was serious.
He tittered nervously. “A rhetorical question, I presume.”
“Do you, goddamn it?”
“Of course, Barlow. Naturally...”
“So do I. Shut up and listen to me.”
“I certainly shan’t continue to listen if you employ that tone of voice. It is annoyingly disagreeable, Barlow.”
Annoyingly disagreeable! And me getting ready to threaten to blast his guts all over the office. That gives you an idea of what I was up against. What can you do with a guy like that? I bit a piece off the mouthpiece and said:
“If you hang up the receiver before I’m through, I’ll come down and whisper what I’ve got to say in your ear. Is that plain?”
“I advise you not to come here just now, Barlow. I have a feeling that my editorial this morning will be resented, and...”
“Psychic, aren’t you.”
“Eh?”
“Let it pass. Listen close if you don’t want your wife to wear black.”
“I’m... I really haven’t time for this bickering, Barlow.”
“You’ll take time and like it. Got a memorandum pad handy?”
“Yes indeed. Are there new developments, Barlow? Good heavens, man, why didn’t you tell me before? I’m on the qui vive.”
“You’re on the spot and haven’t the sense God gave a louse or you’d know it. Start writing on that pad. Here’s what you’re going to do: First, write a retraction of this morning’s childish editorial. Say that the editor got drunk and stuck it in over your signature as a prank. That there’s not a word of truth in it and you’ve fired him for it. Run that in a box in every afternoon edition, and in tomorrow’s paper. Got that?”
“This is preposterous. An outrage. I assure you...”
“You can’t assure me of anything. That’s the first thing you’re going to do. The second is to put every sheet back in those envelopes you stole from my file, and reseal them. I’ll hand out what I want when I want to. Is that clear?”
He said stiffly: “I fail to understand...”
“You and the old maid,” I told him, “will go to hell failing to understand. Skip it. I’m not asking for understanding. I want action.”
He blustered some more. I finally made him realize that I meant business. I don’t know how I accomplished it. But I didn’t hang up until I had his promise to do the two things I demanded. Beating an idea into his head was like trying to drive a shingle nail into concrete. I was soaked with sweat when it was over.
I didn’t have much hopes the retraction would do any good. But I had at least put a stop to any more of his damn-fool editorials. At least for a time. And I didn’t have much hope that he’d put the stuff back in my file and forget it. Or if he did put it back, he wouldn’t forget it. I figured he’d read it all before he put it back, take notes on what he couldn’t remember. But, what the hell? I’d known all along I couldn’t keep that sort of information confidential. Having him break in on it that way gave me an out. I could swear I hadn’t turned it in for publication.
The editorial worried me most. I knew that any retraction he wrote was going to sound silly as hell. Sillier, even, than the editorial.