“Okay, Roy,” he said heavily. “This is the only tangible thing we have from the man, other than that first tape. What can you dig out of this to add to what we’ve got? And maybe give us enough to nail the bastard!”
Gentry took the paper and envelope. He looked at the envelope briefly and then concentrated on the note. He looked up, curious.
“What does he mean, two for one? And ‘good bye to both’?”
“Never mind,” Reardon said shortly. “Forget the words — concentrate on the note itself. Give me something to work on.”
Gentry studied the angry face a moment and then shrugged. He considered the sheet once again, and then placed it on the bench; his glasses went back up to his forehead and he bent over the paper, studying it through a large lens he took from the jacket pocket of his laboratory coat. Reardon waited impatiently while the tall thin man scanned the letters carefully. Gentry looked at the pencil markings last and then looked up. He sounded and looked apologetic.
“Printing isn’t our big forte, but I can make some educated guesses. Obviously, none of these letters came from any magazine, but rather from newsprint stock of some sort. Secondly, I’d say the paper the letters were printed on was the same grade paper stock as the paper the words were pasted on, which is a bit unusual—”
“Unusual? In what way?”
“Well, now.” Gentry said logically, “if you were cutting out letters to paste up a message, from the evening newspaper, for example, what would you normally paste them on?”
Reardon stared at him a moment in dawning understanding and then nodded.
“I see! You’d scarcely have some of the same blank newsprint around the house, would you?” Could his bearded, cigar-smoking, sardonic adversary finally have made a mistake? If so, it was a dandy! Reardon picked up the note, folded it along the original creases carefully, and replaced it in the envelope.
Gentry frowned. “Don’t you want us to work on that?”
“You keep working on what you have,” Reardon said, and tucked the envelope into his pocket.
“And what are you going to go?”
“Something I should have done long ago,” Reardon said grimly. “Do some work myself!”
Chapter 14
Tuesday — 10:30 A.M.
Lieutenant Reardon parked his Charger on Mason, around the corner from the new, impressive four-story building that contained the San Francisco Express. As the first new newspaper in the city since the demise of the old Call-Bulletin, it was rumored that the Express was having its problems combatting the age-old prestige of the Chronicle and the sheer power of the Examiner. Still, Reardon wished the newcomer all the luck in the world — especially if it could provide him answers to some questions. There was, of course, the ridiculous question Porky Frank thought he should ask, as to who might have known about the dinner arrangements for Pop Holland’s retirement party; and then there were the far more important questions arising from the pasted-up note Reardon was guarding in his jacket pocket.
He trotted up the two steps to the wide glass doors, pushed through into a lobby dominated by a huge globe of the world rotating slowly overhead, and advanced to the information desk beneath the round monstrosity. The only person he even had the slightest contact with was whoever wrote the “View from Nob Hill” column, so he felt he might as well start with him. He nodded to the girl behind the desk pleasantly.
“Miss?”
She smiled up. “Sir?”
“I’d like to see—”
Reardon suddenly paused, a tingle passing through him. Ever since he had entered the building he had subconsciously been aware of a faint throbbing somewhere in the background; but now the sound intruded upon him consciously, like the incipient rumblings of an approaching earthquake, except that now he was so immediately aware of it, there was a certain definite rhythm to the sound. He could feel the slight beat that accompanied the sound coming through the marble-tiled floor to the soles of his feet. He didn’t need to listen to it very long. It was a sound that was engraved upon his memory for all time. He swung back to the girl, his pleasant expression gone.
“What’s that noise? That rumbling?”
The girl smiled indulgently. “Everybody asks that. It’s not the San Andreas fault, though I guess that’s what most people think, the first time they come here. It’s just our presses rolling, sir. I’m so used to them I don’t even hear them any more.” That quite-normal inquiry satisfied, the girl smiled brightly. “Now, can I help you, sir?”
But Reardon wasn’t listening. His mind was racing. Newspaper presses, eh? That tape had been made in a building with newspaper presses, and the man who made it was probably like the receptionist — he was so used to the sound he hadn’t even realized it was there, providing a clue to the police. And the note that had arrived that morning, containing the pasted-up threat; that note had been cut from a newspaper and pasted up on blank newsprint, and where was the easiest place to have newsprint lying around if not at a newspaper plant? And then there had been a columnist — one who chose not to sign his name — who was quite openly disdainful of the police...
The entire series of connecting ideas swept across the lieutenant’s brain in analytical process, completed in seconds. He stared at the girl.
“Miss, who writes the column ‘View from Nob Hill’?”
The smile remained, but now it was frozen, no longer as friendly as before, but maintained because that was one of the requirements of meeting the public.
“I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give out that information, sir.”
Reardon’s jaw tightened. A conspiracy, eh? He reached into his pocket, extracting his billfold, opening it to expose his warrant card on one side and his lieutenant’s shield on the other. He allowed the girl to study it a moment, and then closed it and restored it to his pocket. His voice became official.
“All right, miss. My name is Lieutenant Reardon, and I asked you a question! Who writes that column? And why doesn’t it carry his name, as every other column in the paper does?”
The girl looked startled by the attack. “I... I’ll have to make a call, sir.”
Reardon reached over the desk, clamping his hand tightly on the phone.
“No calls! Who writes that column? And why the big secret?”
The girl looked terrified. Tears began to well in her eyes.
“I can’t—”
“Then we’ll take a trip down to the Hall of Justice and see if we can’t get some information out of you down there!” Reardon said grimly. “Let’s go!”
“No! I—” The tears came in a flood. The girl looked miserable. “I’ll tell you. It’s... it’s Mr. Maxwell. He’s the publisher. He—”
She looked around as if for help, but the lobby remained empty except for the two of them. Her teary eyes came back to Reardon’s hard face.
“It’s — he doesn’t sign the column because he often, in fact most of the time, writes editorials in direct contradiction of his column. It’s just — he says he does it to generate interest. Nobody outside the paper is supposed to know...”
Reardon released the telephone, but stayed close enough to take charge if the girl tried to call for help. Maxwell, eh? And a devious man, too! Add that to the pot!