Authors: Whit Masterson
• • •
He faced a roomful of sober and curious faces at one o’clock that afternoon. Underwood introduced him briefly around the conference table, but the greetings he received were reserved. The entire executive echelon of the
Press-Examiner
appeared to be present, with Underwood the lowest rung on the ladder. Editor-in-chief, executive editor, business manager, legal adviser, circulation director, advertising manager … Holt managed to remember their titles if not their names.
With one exception. There was no difficulty in remembering both title and name of Jonathan Ingram, Owner & Publisher. Ingram was a throwback to the days when a publisher put his own personal stamp on his newspaper and was, in addition, a personality in his own right. Ingram was a Napoleonic little man who had almost singlehanded built the
Press-Examiner
up from a weekly throwaway to its present sturdy position. He had once run, unsuccessfully, for United States senator as much, so the story went, to force the
Sentinel
and
Evening News
to mention his name (strictly forbidden on all other occasions) as anything else. True or not, the story fitted Ingram’s eccentric personality which also led him to wear sports shirts on all occasions, including formal banquets.
Ingram wore one now, an expensive loose-weave white wool creation with his initials embroidered in red on the breast pocket. He looked out of place among the sober business suits of his associates but his easy assumption of command gave no doubt that he belonged there. From his position at the head of the conference table, he regarded Holt, who sat at the foot of it, with the same mild interest a boy might examine a butterfly on a board.
Underwood, as his sponsor, made a short opening address and turned the meeting over to Holt. For the second time that day, Holt told his story. He dealt with it in greater detail than before, developing it logically as he would have developed it for a jury — which, in a sense, his listeners were. In his courtroom experience, Holt had found that he could generally sense the impression he was making but here, in this quiet panelled room atop the newspaper plant, this intuition failed him. The men listened attentively but without much expression, and Jonathan Ingram was the most impassive of the lot. Ingram fiddled with a ball-point pen, clicking the point in and out methodically with the perfect rhythm of a metronome.
When Holt had finished and sat down, no one spoke. Then, from the way all heads swivelled toward the other end of the table, he understood why this was not like a jury, after all. Jurors made up their minds independently, at least to some degree, but here everyone was waiting to take his cue from Ingram.
Finally, Ingram put the ball-point pen away. “Thanks for coming to us first, Mr. Holt,” he murmured and an almost visible wave of relaxation passed around the table. Holt shared in it; he couldn’t help himself.
Immediately, there were questions from the others. How far did he intend to go with this? How much could he prove immediately? What did he expect the
Press-Examiner
to do? What about possible libel actions? Holt answered each one as well as he was able.
“There’s still one thing you haven’t told us,” Ingram said, breaking his own silence. “And that’s what you expect to get out of this, Mr. Holt. We’ll get a story, the city will get a shake-up and some men may possibly get justice. But what about you personally?”
Holt said slowly, “That really doesn’t matter to me. I figure I’m doing my job.”
“You’re not likely to have a job,” Ingram pointed out. “Of course, there are other jobs. Adair’s, for instance. Would you like to be district attorney?”
“I don’t think I’m enough of a politician.”
“I disagree. But that can wait.” Ingram looked around with a slight smile. “Well, gentlemen, the issue has been presented to us. What are we going to do about it? I’m open for opinions.”
They went around the table in order, and the verdict was mixed. Circulation and Editorial plumped for breaking the story; Business and Legal were inclined to caution. Advertising was on the fence. The argument which ensued was free and sometimes heated, but Holt discovered it had little to do with the merits of the case as he understood them. The abstract ideas of justice and responsibility were not mentioned. The discussion revolved solely on how far the
Press-Examiner
dared to go, and what the repercussions to the newspaper might be. Holt stayed out of it, having nothing to contribute along those lines.
Ingram summed up for all of them, when it appeared that the argument had run its course and was turning back on itself. “As I see it, it boils down to this. We all like the story as well we should since it’s a hell of a story. But we’re all scared. The question is, how scared are we?”
No one cared to define the limits of his cowardice. Ingram continued, “I suggest that Mr. Holt has more to be scared of than any of us. He’s been shot at a couple of times. And yet he’s here. I don’t like to think Mr. Holt is a better man than I am.”
Editorial and Circulation smiled; the others were carefully expressionless. Ingram said, “Underwood, if we should decide to run this story, it would be your baby. How would you propose to handle it? And I said ‘if.’ ”
“There’s only one way to do it and that’s strictly objective. Straight news reporting, no opinion. Quote Holt throughout.” Underwood stroked his bushy moustache reflectively. “I’d concentrate on the present, the Linneker case. Why did Farnum deny planting the dynamite at Shayon’s apartment? Why did he retract this later? Why does he refuse a lie detector test? Why is Holt forbidden to see him now? All out of Holt’s mouth, naturally. They’ll have to answer those questions and when they do we should have a lever to open up the whole thing. That’s the way I’d handle it.”
There were nods of approval from the others. Ingram mused, “Sounds logical. And it leaves us an out if we need it.” He stood up abruptly. “Let me see your front page before you plate it.” He nodded to Holt and left by a rear door. The conference was over.
Underwood rode the elevator down with Holt. “Well, did you get what you wanted?”
“I guess so. Did you?”
“A story’s just a story to me. And to the
Press-Examiner
. Did you hear what Mr. Ingram said about us having an out in case? We can get off the bus any time we choose. But can you?”
“Is that what they mean by a free press?” Holt asked wearily.
“If you’re looking for a public institution, go to the library. A newspaper’s a business, as you should have gathered from the round table up there.” The elevator stopped at the editorial floor and Underwood got out. “You better hope that business is good tomorrow.”
Holt rode the rest of the way down alone. Underwood had made the
Press-Examiner’s
position clear, if it hadn’t been clear already. The newspaper would ride with him just as long as it appeared that he was winning. That long, and no longer.
Well, Holt thought, at least that’s more than I had when I came in and I guess I should be grateful. And though the long conference had left him utterly fatigued — he noted with surprise that it was nearly four o’clock — it also left him in better spirits than before. There was a certain relief in committing himself to a course of action, even if that action turned out to be merely burning his bridges.
Holt drove home to his wife. Connie had no news to report that matched his own, but a letter had arrived in the afternoon mail. The contents were a stiff vellum card, chastely white, that announced the marriage the past weekend of Miss Tara Linneker and Mr. Delmont Shayon. The ceremony had taken place in Las Vegas but the postmark was local. On the reverse side of the card, Tara had written, “We’ll always be eternally grateful for what you did.” And Shayon had added, “Corny, but true. P.S. Don’t bother to look for me at the shoe store, after all!”
“Isn’t that nice?” Connie commented. “You should feel proud, Mitch.”
He did. It was good to know that he had succeeded in making somebody happy. That was more than McCoy could say.
T
HE
weather bureau predicted that Friday would be mostly sunny, with night and morning low fog off the coast, light variable winds rising to moderate in the late afternoon and little change in temperature. The forecast was accurate as far as it went. Of the man-made storm that was to break across the city, it said nothing.
The
Press-Examiner
was, by definition, a morning newspaper, but Ingram tried to match his competition by stringing out several editions through the day. The Sunrise Edition went on the streets at five a.m.; the Final about one o’clock in the afternoon. It was basically the same paper through all five editions, varying only in front page make-up. Today there was less variation than usual. The same story held top position through every edition.
COP ACCUSED IN MURDER FRAME-UP …
The story was the same but it was received in various ways.
• • •
Captain Loren McCoy was one of the first to learn of it, although he did not subscribe to or read the
Press-Examiner
. Unable to break the habit of thirty years, he still rose punctually at five o’clock for his morning cup of caffeineless coffee. As he sipped, he turned on the radio for the early newscast.
He listened impassively and only the keenest observer would have known that what he heard was of more than casual interest. But when the news concluded, McCoy departed from his usual routine. He left the breakfast table without taking his vitamin pills. They lay ready on the tablecloth in an orderly row — the red one, the brown one, the green one — but they lay untouched for the rest of the day.
McCoy went into the bathroom and began to shave. He used a straight-edge razor but his hand was steady. He did not cut himself.
However, when only half finished, he stopped to open the medicine cabinet and take a nerve tablet. This was unusual because he was not a man who interrupted any job he had once started.
He had returned to his shaving when the telephone began to ring. It kept ringing but went unanswered.
• • •
The reporters were more successful with Adair. They woke the district attorney out of a sound slumber. The news took him completely by surprise but, though still groggy with sleep, Adair was too practised a politician to tumble into a trap.
“I’ll have a statement for you later this morning,” he promised and hung up. The bastard, he thought, the dirty double-crossing — maverick! He stared bleakly at the alarm clock. Only five-thirty, practically in the middle of the night. But Adair knew that he would get no more sleep today, and perhaps not for some time to come.
• • •
Ernest Farnum heard the news at breakfast in his cell. The jailer who brought the food cart passed the information along to him with his tray. “I don’t envy you, bud. The assistant D.A. just blew the lid off the Linneker case and the fat’s in the fire for sure.”
“What’s that got to do with me? I confessed already.”
“You ever see two dogs fighting over a bone? It don’t matter much what the bone says.”
When the jailer returned he was surprised to see that Farnum hadn’t touched his breakfast. That was unusual. For a prisoner, Farnum was a heavy eater.
• • •
An early morning meeting was called in the offices of the publisher of the
Sentinel
and
Evening News
. It was held in the same sort of surroundings, attended by the same type of men, and concerned the same subject as yesterday’s conference at the
Press-Examiner
. A copy of the
Press-Examiner’s
Sunrise Edition had been placed before each chair, although most of the men had already seen it.
“Well, what are we going to do about it?” demanded the publisher. He was no Jonathan Ingram, but merely the local representative of the newspaper chain to which the
Sentinel
and
Evening News
belonged. The ownership resided in Illinois.
“Maybe if we ignore it, it’ll just go away,” someone suggested humorously.
“Sure, right along with our circulation. We’ve got to take some sort of a position. I’m not buying Holt’s story, that’s for certain, but in case he should turn out to have something — ”
“You think there’s any chance of that?”
“I just plain don’t know. Neither does Ingram, of course, but he can afford to blast the administration. We can’t. At the same time, we can’t afford to miss the boat.” The publisher glanced around the table and saw that there was no disagreement. “For the moment, we’ll sit on the fence and see which way the cat jumps. In the meantime, dig up what you can on Holt — there ought to be plenty — and we’ll see if we can’t make the cat jump our way.”
• • •
Dan Buccio read the
Press-Examiner
at his office behind the Hi-Lo Club and didn’t like what he read. So that’s what it is, he thought, a battle between Holt and the cops. I don’t give a damn about either one of them but somebody’s liable to get caught in the cross fire. Why did Holt have to come nosing around here, dragging me into it?
Buccio telephoned his wife and told her to be ready to leave for Phoenix in an hour. The reason he gave was that he wanted a change of climate, which was true enough as far as it went. Dan Buccio had a hunch that the city was going to be too hot to suit him.
• • •
Chief Russell Gould was out of town, attending an Air Force reunion in Los Angeles. An
Evening News
reporter reached him by telephone in time for his statement to make the noon edition.
It was a blanket denial. Gould defended McCoy and the police department in the strongest possible terms and characterized Holt as an irresponsible political adventurer. He pointed out that the first attack on Holt was still being investigated for possible inconsistencies and that the second attack — ”if there was one” — had not even been reported to the authorities.
Gould didn’t go so far as to call Holt a liar but only the actual word was missing.
• • •