The newspaper carried complete details, even to a verbatim copy of the marriage record of the Riverbend Methodist Church, as the contents of that record had been transmitted over long distance telephone at the request of the sheriff’s office. It contained an interview with the fingerprint expert of the sheriff’s office, stating there could be no doubt as to the identity of Dr. Perry’s fingerprints, which appeared on the space-bar of the typewriter. And it contained a boxed-in paragraph giving a last minute flash announcing that Dr. Perry had confessed.
Sylvia Martin sat in the district attorney’s office, reading the newspaper.
“A damned good story, Mr. District Attorney,” she said, “even if we did write it.”
He grinned across at her. “We had to save our jobs,” he said.
“Say, Doug, know something?”
“What?”
“One of the big Los Angeles papers rang me up and offered me a swell job. Gee, Doug, the city editor was where he could hear my end of the conversation. He knew what it was. Gosh but he was worried.”
The district attorney’s forehead showed furrows of concern. “Did you accept, Sylvia?”
“No,” she said, “I told them I liked the local environment... How about your Hollywood contacts, Doug? Going to play around with the movie crowd?”
“No,” he told her. “I did the same thing you did.”
“What’s that?”
“Told them I liked the local environment.”
She looked at him, gave a quick intake of breath.
“Really, Doug?”
“Really.”
“Did... did you mean what I meant?” she asked.
“The question,” he told her, “is: Did you mean what I meant?”