“I wanting work under him,” Xenobia remembered, “but fogey copping out. Anyway, I not seeing -”
“Suppose,” Frank proposed, “that I could persuade the Professor to set up a free medical treatment program for all the girls in your union? Now you know that’s a big expense for ladies in your line of work. Wouldn’t the money you’d save offset the business you’re losing because of Venus?”
“Is truly. Unioners buy, no doubtful. That big point why we maybe later striking against management after finish Venus picnicking.”
“You’ll be able to avoid that now,” Frank pointed out. “Your union membership won’t have to go through the deprivation of a prolonged walkout. What do you say? Is it a deal? Can I tell Hal Rockwell you girls will cooperate if he will? Can I tell him you don’t care if the charges are dropped against the Venus people?”
“Is sediment. Come, we clap-clap on it.” Xenobia started to dance slowly, slapping her palms together over her head.
“Sorry. I don’t have time now. I’ll have to take a raincheck on the clap-clap.” Frank waved from the doorway and left.
Halfway down the stairs he met Mother Tucker coming up. “I hope you and Xenobia are finished,” she told him. “She’s needed downstairs. A sudden influx of customers from a convention.”
“What convention?” Frank asked idly.
“Some association of newpaper publishers,” she told him as she edged past and continued up the stairs. “The place is busier than Bargain Day at Gimbels.”
“Newspaper publishers? Hmm,” Frank mused to himself. When he got to the foot of the stairs he ambled into the parlor. It was indeed very crowded.
The first person Frank spotted was D. B. Herzel, publisher of the Flintsburgh Daily Herald. Herzel’s much-caricatured bushy eyebrows made him stand out in the throng. The eyes under them were squeezing a pair of large breasts a few feet away from him at the moment.
“Hello there, D. B.,” Frank greeted him.
Herzel started guiltily. “Oh, hello, Pollener,” he said, his face reddening.
“How’ve you been?” Frank asked pleasantly.
“All right. And yourself?”
“Just dandy. And how is Mrs. Herzel?”
The reddening face developed into a very bad sunburn.
“She’s fine,” he said weakly. “Just fine.”
“Give her my regards when you see her,” Frank purred.
“Oh. Sure. Sure.” Herzel looked at him suspiciously. “I didn’t know you knew my wife,” he said.
“I don’t. But I've always wanted to meet her.” Frank’s smile was cherubic. “Say, D. B.,” he added innocently, “I’ve been meaning to call you about a client of mine. The Venus Observatory. You’ve been pretty rough on them lately. Particularly that editorial bit last week. I think it’s because you don’t really understand the humanitarian import of their work. Why don’t you look into it and see if maybe you can’t find it in your heart to run another editorial pointing out all the good their research will eventually accomplish.”
“You mean do an about-face? I don’t think I--”
“Sure you can, D. B. Talk it over with the Mrs. Get the feminine point of view. I’m sure you’ll see things differently. Unless maybe,” Frank added as if by afterthought, “you’d rather I discussed it with her?”
“No. No. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll take care of it.”
“Now that’s what I call publishing integrity.” Frank patted him on the back and moved away.
The short, fat man he spoke to next was attempting to balance a girl in a transparent black nightie on his rotund stomach. His eyes grew very large at Frank’s opening words.
“Hello there, Mr. Foster. Say, I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on that anti-vice crusade you’ve been running in the Courier-News. Keep it up. In no time at all you’ll put the red-light district right out of business. And I sure think it’s wonderful the way you go to all this trouble to do your own research. That’s real nitty-gritty journalism, the kind you don’t see much of any more.”
“I— I— I-—” Foster sputtered.
“Only why not stick to what you know about,” Frank continued. “Stay with real vice and lay off the Venus Observatory. You wouldn’t want people to call you a hypocrite for writing about something outside your personal experience.”
“I—I— I—”
“You will stop taking pot-shots at science, now won’t you, Mr. Foster?”
“I– I— I—” Foster managed to nod.
“Good. I knew I could depend on you.” Frank started to walk away. “And let me congratulate you,” he called over his shoulder. “That’s a prime example of the perils of vice you’ve caught there. Hang onto her!”
The Flintsburgh Evening Journal came next. Its publisher, Hartley P. Cronin, was just following a hip-wiggling blonde out the doorway towards the staircase when Frank called his name loud and clear. Cronin swiveled around fast, with his finger automatically raised to his lips. His normally sleek gray hair was rumpled and there was a lipstick smear on the tip of his aristocratic nose.
“Talk is you’re thinking of politics,” Frank opened as he walked around Cronin and blocked his path to the stairs.
“This is neither the time nor place to-—”
“Talk is that’s why the Journal’s cracking down so hard on our illustrious Mayor.”
“A disgrace to civic-—”
“Talk is you’re out to beat him out for the nomination for Governor.”
“Can’t we postpone this conversation until -”
“Happens I’m on my way over to His Honor’s office right now.” Frank ignored Cronin’s startled expression. “I’ll give him your regards.” He stepped away from the staircase and started for the front door.
“Pollener! Wait a minute!” Cronin scuttled after him. “What is it you want?” he whispered anxiously.
“The Venus Observatory. I want only psalms of praise from the Journal from here on in.”
“All right.” Cronin looked relieved. He’d been expecting a much more sizable request. “You have my word on it.”
“Thanks. And I hope you win. His Honor really would make a lousy Governor.”
Pleased with his night’s work, Frank waved good night to Cronin and left the establishment of Mother Tucker.
When he reached home, the first thing he did was call Professor Woocheck and fill him in on everything that had happened. The Professor readily agreed to all the conditions Frank had settled upon with Xenobia and Mother Tucker. He even seemed to see more value in the contribution that might be made than Frank had. When Frank hung up on the Professor, he called Hal Rockwell.
“I think I’ve even gotten the Syndicate off the hook as far as any serious threat from the girls’ union is concerned,” Frank pointed out at the conclusion of his speech to Rockwell. “So will you do me a favor and pass the word along so the charges against the Venus people are dropped?”
“Will do,” Rockwell promised.
He kept his promise. The telephone wires really hummed that night with the chain of calls he set in motion. He called Carrera. Carrera called Mr. X. Mr. X called His Honor. The Mayor called the police commissioner. The commissioner called the precinct captain. The captain called the Vice Squad lieutenant who had led the original raid. And before morning, the lieutenant had made arrangements to drop the charges.
Then the lieutenant called the captain to tell him the matter had been taken care of. The captain called the commissioner. The commissioner called the Mayor.
By that time it was mid-morning of the next day. “Dropped?” the Mayor said. “You can’t drop those charges,” he said. “Re-instate them!” he ordered the police commissioner.
“Press those charges against Venus,” the police commissioner told the precinct captain.