these men get away with this.”
Raeburn was hard-faced and angry-eyed.
“Anyhow, I think we can safely leave you for tonight,” Roger added. “I’ll have an officer stationed on the landing, in case the men should try to come back, and have another man in the street. Many thanks for the coffee; it’s done me a world of good. Good night.” He nodded, and went out.
Turnbull followed him, grinning.
There was a hush in the study after they had gone, broken by a restless movement from Warrender. Then the front door was closed, and silence fell.
“This is the worst thing that could have happened,” Warrender said, savagely.
“Don’t make too much of it.” Outwardly, Raeburn was more himself now. “West’s very pleased with himself, but this can’t get him anywhere. The important thing is to find out who broke in. I think we’ll telephone the Cry, George.”
The Night Editor, in his office off the newsroom of the Daily Cry, sat back in his chair, yawning. The last editions would be on the machines in half an hour’s time, and he would be through.
The door opened, and a boy entered bringing him pulls of a new set-up of the front page. He stretched out his hand to take them, and as he did so the telephone rang.
“Put ‘em down,” he said, and lifted the receiver. “Night Editor . . . Who? . . . Oh, yes, put him through at once.” His voice grew sharper and he pressed a bell push. “Yes, Mr Raeburn? . . . What?” He grabbed a pencil and began to write.
Five minutes later he rang off. By then the Chief Subeditor was lounging about the desk, a cigarette drooping from his lips, an eyeshade covering his tired eyes.
“Barney, put the UN story on an inside page. We want space for a new one on the front. Raeburn’s flat has been burgled, and West’s on the job. Build up the story this way: is the Yard wise to give this case to this particular man? Is there a risk of personal antagonism and consequent inefficiency? Then ease off a bit, and be conciliatory. It could be a chance for West to make a comeback, as it should be a, simple job. We look to him to make an early arrest. Got it?”
The Chief Sub-editor said: “Yes. But “
“There isn’t any time to lose.”
“This won’t take a minute. Sam, how long are we going to keep needling West and the Yard? You’re going to build up so that if he doesn’t pull the burglars in quickly you’ll be able to smack him down hard. I know Raeburn’s the owner, but we keep sailing pretty close to the wind.”
“You may be right,” said the Night Editor, “but write up the story from these notes and make sure we catch the late editions. We can’t argue, and it might even give West a break. If he does make an arrest, we’ll have to give him a good write-up. One day Raeburn might cut his own throat; but, if he did, where would our jobs be? Better hope he’s the winner!”
“I see what you mean,” the Sub-editor said.
11: THE MAN WITH THE INJURED ARM
Reports about car movements between two and three o’clock were reaching the Yard from all parts of the West End and neighbouring districts, when Roger arrived at his office. The chief interest centred on three: a large Austin, a Fiat, and a Hillman Minx, all of which had been seen in Park Lane about the time of the burglary. This was established by half past four. At a quarter to five B Division rang through to report that a Hillman Minx had been found stranded in a side street in Brixton.
“Go over that car with a fine comb,” Roger urged.
“We hardly need to,” said the Divisional man at the other end of the line. “There’s blood on the floor, and blood on the inside of the near-side front door. That means there was a passenger who was probably wounded in the left arm.”
Roger’s heart leaped. “Nice work! Was the car stolen?”
“We’ll tell you as soon as we know.”
“Turnbull will come and have a look,” Roger said, and grinned when he saw that Turnbull, as lively as
Raeburn was hard-faced and angry-eyed.
“Anyhow, I think we can safely leave you for tonight,” Roger added. “I’ll have an officer stationed on the landing, in case the men should try to come back, and have another man in the street. Many thanks for the coffee; it’s done me a world of good. Good night.” He nodded, and went out.
Turnbull followed him, grinning.
There was a hush in the study after they had gone, broken by a restless movement from Warrender. Then the front door was closed, and silence fell.
“This is the worst thing that could have happened,” Warrender said, savagely.
“Don’t make too much of it.” Outwardly, Raeburn was more himself now. “West’s very pleased with himself, but this can’t get him anywhere. The important thing is to find out who broke in. I think we’ll telephone the Cry, George.”
The Night Editor, in his office off the newsroom of the Daily Cry, sat back in his chair, yawning. The last editions would be on the machines in half an hour’s time, and he would be through.
The door opened, and a boy entered bringing him pulls of a new set-up of the front page. He stretched out his hand to take them, and as he did so the telephone rang.
“Put ‘em down,” he said, and lifted the receiver. “Night Editor . . . Who? . . . Oh, yes, put him through at once.” His voice grew sharper and he pressed a bell push. “Yes, Mr Raeburn? . . . What?” He grabbed a pencil and began to write.
Five minutes later he rang off. By then the Chief Subeditor was lounging about the desk, a cigarette drooping from his lips, an eyeshade covering his tired eyes.
“Barney, put the UN story on an inside page. We want space for a new one on the front. Raeburn’s flat has been burgled, and West’s on the job. Build up the story this way: is the Yard wise to give this case to this particular man? Is there a risk of personal antagonism and consequent inefficiency? Then ease off a bit, and be conciliatory. It could be a chance for West to make a comeback, as it should be a, simple job. We look to him to make an early arrest. Got it?”
The Chief Sub-editor said: “Yes. But “
“There isn’t any time to lose.”
“This won’t take a minute. Sam, how long are we going to keep needling West and the Yard? You’re going to build up so that if he doesn’t pull the burglars in quickly you’ll be able to smack him down hard. I know Raeburn’s the owner, but we keep sailing pretty close to the wind.”
“You may be right,” said the Night Editor, “but write up the story from these notes and make sure we catch the late editions. We can’t argue, and it might even give West a break. If he does make an arrest, we’ll have to give him a good write-up. One day Raeburn might cut his own throat; but, if he did, where would our jobs be? Better hope he’s the winner!”
“I see what you mean,” the Sub-editor said.
11: THE MAN WITH THE INJURED ARM
Reports about car movements between two and three o’clock were reaching the Yard from all parts of the West End and neighbouring districts, when Roger arrived at his office. The chief interest centred on three: a large Austin, a Fiat, and a Hillman Minx, all of which had been seen in Park Lane about the time of the burglary. This was established by half past four. At a quarter to five B Division rang through to report that a Hillman Minx had been found stranded in a side street in Brixton.
“Go over that car with a fine comb,” Roger urged.
“We hardly need to,” said the Divisional man at the other end of the line. “There’s blood on the floor, and blood on the inside of the near-side front door. That means there was a passenger who was probably wounded in the left arm.”
Roger’s heart leaped. “Nice work! Was the car stolen?”
“We’ll tell you as soon as we know.”
“Turnbull will come and have a look,” Roger said, and grinned when he saw that Turnbull, as lively as
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