it was.
“Well,” said Burrows, “I wish Gorman would get his report finished and up here.”
“Don’t take Gorman’s remarks that he made too seriously, He told us, himself, that he was just taking a guess at the time. Remember? He said he could always change his mind.”
“I’d feel better if Gorman said the stiff was really only six feet tall. I’d feel a lot better. I can see the difference between some overworked med assistant slapping a guy through a line and saying he was five eleven, and a doc later on says he was six feet. A report just can’t be that wrong—five eleven and maybe six two.”
“Unless he was a growing boy,” said Jensen. He tried to make a joke of it. He continued seriously, “I’ve read of guys who’ve taken stretching exercises at gyms, using some kind of harness, which added an inch or two to their height.” “You don’t mean it though,” said Burrows.
“Course I don’t mean it,” agreed Jensen. “I just said it, because it came to my mind, but it’s downright foolish.”
19
I DEBATED , with myself, concerning the next step forced on me by the murder of Merkle. He had picked up a reply to my ad in the New Amsterdam Safe Box News. Undoubtedly the reply had arrived in a sealed envelope through the mail, and there was a possibility, although a remote one, that the envelope had carried a return address which the magazine might have kept as a record. With the discovery of Merkle’s death, the police would attempt to trace his actions during the last day of his life and possibly discover his trip to the publication. On the one hand, I did not want to be connected with Merkle’s death in any way, but on the other, if there was a remote chance of finding the source of the reply, I did not wish to miss it. Another month would pass before the ad could be run again, and it might not be answered a second time.
With some hesitation, I decided that I would call at the New Amsterdam Safe Box News, and accept the consequences as a calculated risk. The office was on the sixth floor of a shabby building filled with mercantile jobbers. In an outlying office, which served as a reception room, a middle-aged typist pounded a heavy machine and answered the single phone. In the second office was the editor and sole member of the editorial staff. He was a man named Holcombe, with balding head fringed in sandy hair. His desk was crammed into a narrow space surrounded by green metal filing cabinets, and the top of it was littered with clippings, paste pot, scissors, and blank dummy pages of the magazine.
After I had explained to him that I had come to pick up any replies to my ad, Holcombe called to the typist, “Any replies to ad P-61?”
Deliberately she sorted through a thin stack of envelopes and shook her head. “No,” she replied, “nothing.” She returned to her typewriter, then paused and raised her head. “Say,” she observed, half to herself half to Holcombe, “I think there was one.” In another moment, she bobbed her head positively. “Yes, there was one. It was picked up yesterday.”
Holcombe turned to me. “Did you get it?”
“No,” I told him. Then on my pad I explained that probably it had been picked up for me by a friend.
“He’ll give it to you then,” Holcombe assured me.
I nodded, then added, “I may not see him for a few days. Would you have a record of it?”
“You mean a return address?”
That was what I meant. “Sorry,” said Holcombe. “After all we’re a highly specialized publication. We carry very few ads, and there’s never any problem concerning the replies.”
Deciding that it was better not to arouse curiosity or comment, I dropped the subject and left the office.
The next day I read in the papers that Merkle’s body had been discovered. The story was brief and appeared on the inside fourth page; it said that Merkle had been absent from work, and when his office called him had not answered his phone. As he was known to be
“Well,” said Burrows, “I wish Gorman would get his report finished and up here.”
“Don’t take Gorman’s remarks that he made too seriously, He told us, himself, that he was just taking a guess at the time. Remember? He said he could always change his mind.”
“I’d feel better if Gorman said the stiff was really only six feet tall. I’d feel a lot better. I can see the difference between some overworked med assistant slapping a guy through a line and saying he was five eleven, and a doc later on says he was six feet. A report just can’t be that wrong—five eleven and maybe six two.”
“Unless he was a growing boy,” said Jensen. He tried to make a joke of it. He continued seriously, “I’ve read of guys who’ve taken stretching exercises at gyms, using some kind of harness, which added an inch or two to their height.” “You don’t mean it though,” said Burrows.
“Course I don’t mean it,” agreed Jensen. “I just said it, because it came to my mind, but it’s downright foolish.”
19
I DEBATED , with myself, concerning the next step forced on me by the murder of Merkle. He had picked up a reply to my ad in the New Amsterdam Safe Box News. Undoubtedly the reply had arrived in a sealed envelope through the mail, and there was a possibility, although a remote one, that the envelope had carried a return address which the magazine might have kept as a record. With the discovery of Merkle’s death, the police would attempt to trace his actions during the last day of his life and possibly discover his trip to the publication. On the one hand, I did not want to be connected with Merkle’s death in any way, but on the other, if there was a remote chance of finding the source of the reply, I did not wish to miss it. Another month would pass before the ad could be run again, and it might not be answered a second time.
With some hesitation, I decided that I would call at the New Amsterdam Safe Box News, and accept the consequences as a calculated risk. The office was on the sixth floor of a shabby building filled with mercantile jobbers. In an outlying office, which served as a reception room, a middle-aged typist pounded a heavy machine and answered the single phone. In the second office was the editor and sole member of the editorial staff. He was a man named Holcombe, with balding head fringed in sandy hair. His desk was crammed into a narrow space surrounded by green metal filing cabinets, and the top of it was littered with clippings, paste pot, scissors, and blank dummy pages of the magazine.
After I had explained to him that I had come to pick up any replies to my ad, Holcombe called to the typist, “Any replies to ad P-61?”
Deliberately she sorted through a thin stack of envelopes and shook her head. “No,” she replied, “nothing.” She returned to her typewriter, then paused and raised her head. “Say,” she observed, half to herself half to Holcombe, “I think there was one.” In another moment, she bobbed her head positively. “Yes, there was one. It was picked up yesterday.”
Holcombe turned to me. “Did you get it?”
“No,” I told him. Then on my pad I explained that probably it had been picked up for me by a friend.
“He’ll give it to you then,” Holcombe assured me.
I nodded, then added, “I may not see him for a few days. Would you have a record of it?”
“You mean a return address?”
That was what I meant. “Sorry,” said Holcombe. “After all we’re a highly specialized publication. We carry very few ads, and there’s never any problem concerning the replies.”
Deciding that it was better not to arouse curiosity or comment, I dropped the subject and left the office.
The next day I read in the papers that Merkle’s body had been discovered. The story was brief and appeared on the inside fourth page; it said that Merkle had been absent from work, and when his office called him had not answered his phone. As he was known to be
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