it, the ink began to blur and turn rusty. The paper buzzed in his hands, like a wasp’s nest that wasn’t quite empty.
He dropped it on the counter. “Must be my mistake. Though I see here, Herschel did put in this ad for work.”
The editor peered at the page. “That’s right.”
“Did anyone contact the office here about the job?”
“Not that I talked to—Danny!” the editor hollered over the clanking of the press. “You talk to anybody about the Herschel ad?”
The press operator turned, and did a sharp double-take when he saw them. As well he might, Trace thought, hearing Boz suck his teeth meaningfully. The black-haired printer’s devil was the same young fellow who’d been photographing the Herschel crime scene.
He threw a lever at the side of the press and came over to them, warily. “What about the Herschel ad?”
The newspaper editor repeated his question. The pressman claimed not to recall anyone asking about the ad. He looked Trace in the eye and said, “I’ll take care of them, Mr. Avery, you go on back to the type.”
When the editor had turned the corner and sat down, the young man said in an undertone, “You here to make trouble?”
“Just want to ask you a few questions,” Trace said.
The pressman hesitated, then nodded. “Wait for me around back.” Then, louder, he added, “Sorry I couldn’t help you, sir.”
A few minutes later, Trace and Boz were standing in the alley behind the newspaper office, watching the streetcars go by. The printer’s devil came out the back door with a freshly rolled cigarette in his hand and a box of safety matches. He held his free hand out to Trace and then to Boz. “I’m Danny,” he said. “Danny Lewis, he calls me.” He jerked his head toward the interior of the building, and his boss. “My real name’s Daniel Levy.”
“The old man don’t take to Jews?” Trace said.
“Rather not take the chance,” Danny said. “And anyway, I got other reasons for changing my name. My brother was the assistant reporter and printer’s devil here three months ago—Isaac Levy. He said the old man was all right, never gave him any trouble. But then Isaac turns up dead. Hanged by the neck in the press room.”
“Hanged himself?” Trace asked.
The kid shrugged eloquently, hands cupped around his smoke.
“And you don’t want the old man knowin there’s a family connection,” Boz guessed, “til you figure out why your brother died.”
“Something like that.” Danny exhaled. “I also don’t want him knowing I was out at the Herschel farm yesterday. The Citizen doesn’t print pictures. We don’t have the money or manpower to make lithographs. So I moonlight. The photographic equipment’s my own—at least it was Isaac’s, and our father’s before that. I take pictures where there’s a story, and sell them to the big magazines when I can.”
“How’d you know about the Herschel murders?” Boz asked.
“I got a friend at the funeral home. He tips me off when they get called to a murder scene.” He cocked an ironic eyebrow at their expressions. “Hey, we all got to make a living.”
“That’s all well and fine,” Trace said, “but it don’t explain how the story got in your paper before the bodies were even out of the well.”
Danny’s eyes went wary. “A story in my paper? When was this?”
“Yesterday morning. Saw the new edition less than an hour after we left the Herschel farm. Best I can figure it had to have been printed up the night before—”
But Danny was shaking his head as the words were leaving Trace’s mouth. “I’m sorry, but you couldn’t have. I did the proofreading Sunday night. All we put in there about Herschel was his ad.”
“There must’ve been another edition. A special.”
Danny spread his hands. “Who would’ve run it? I sure didn’t. And anyway, there wasn’t time. Mr. Avery set the type, Friday and Saturday; I proofed it Sunday and printed it Monday. There was just time to
He dropped it on the counter. “Must be my mistake. Though I see here, Herschel did put in this ad for work.”
The editor peered at the page. “That’s right.”
“Did anyone contact the office here about the job?”
“Not that I talked to—Danny!” the editor hollered over the clanking of the press. “You talk to anybody about the Herschel ad?”
The press operator turned, and did a sharp double-take when he saw them. As well he might, Trace thought, hearing Boz suck his teeth meaningfully. The black-haired printer’s devil was the same young fellow who’d been photographing the Herschel crime scene.
He threw a lever at the side of the press and came over to them, warily. “What about the Herschel ad?”
The newspaper editor repeated his question. The pressman claimed not to recall anyone asking about the ad. He looked Trace in the eye and said, “I’ll take care of them, Mr. Avery, you go on back to the type.”
When the editor had turned the corner and sat down, the young man said in an undertone, “You here to make trouble?”
“Just want to ask you a few questions,” Trace said.
The pressman hesitated, then nodded. “Wait for me around back.” Then, louder, he added, “Sorry I couldn’t help you, sir.”
A few minutes later, Trace and Boz were standing in the alley behind the newspaper office, watching the streetcars go by. The printer’s devil came out the back door with a freshly rolled cigarette in his hand and a box of safety matches. He held his free hand out to Trace and then to Boz. “I’m Danny,” he said. “Danny Lewis, he calls me.” He jerked his head toward the interior of the building, and his boss. “My real name’s Daniel Levy.”
“The old man don’t take to Jews?” Trace said.
“Rather not take the chance,” Danny said. “And anyway, I got other reasons for changing my name. My brother was the assistant reporter and printer’s devil here three months ago—Isaac Levy. He said the old man was all right, never gave him any trouble. But then Isaac turns up dead. Hanged by the neck in the press room.”
“Hanged himself?” Trace asked.
The kid shrugged eloquently, hands cupped around his smoke.
“And you don’t want the old man knowin there’s a family connection,” Boz guessed, “til you figure out why your brother died.”
“Something like that.” Danny exhaled. “I also don’t want him knowing I was out at the Herschel farm yesterday. The Citizen doesn’t print pictures. We don’t have the money or manpower to make lithographs. So I moonlight. The photographic equipment’s my own—at least it was Isaac’s, and our father’s before that. I take pictures where there’s a story, and sell them to the big magazines when I can.”
“How’d you know about the Herschel murders?” Boz asked.
“I got a friend at the funeral home. He tips me off when they get called to a murder scene.” He cocked an ironic eyebrow at their expressions. “Hey, we all got to make a living.”
“That’s all well and fine,” Trace said, “but it don’t explain how the story got in your paper before the bodies were even out of the well.”
Danny’s eyes went wary. “A story in my paper? When was this?”
“Yesterday morning. Saw the new edition less than an hour after we left the Herschel farm. Best I can figure it had to have been printed up the night before—”
But Danny was shaking his head as the words were leaving Trace’s mouth. “I’m sorry, but you couldn’t have. I did the proofreading Sunday night. All we put in there about Herschel was his ad.”
“There must’ve been another edition. A special.”
Danny spread his hands. “Who would’ve run it? I sure didn’t. And anyway, there wasn’t time. Mr. Avery set the type, Friday and Saturday; I proofed it Sunday and printed it Monday. There was just time to
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