fine,” Hearst called out. He scrambled to his feet, made it to the phone, adjusted his robe, and slouched in the wingback as Willicombe hit the study. “What’s the matter, Willicombe? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I heard screaming.”
“Oh?” Hearst laughed. “And here I thought it was the telephone.” He motioned Willicombe to a chair, and picked up the receiver. “The Chief here. What’s up?”
The call was from one of his syndicates, King Features. Hearst listened as the senior editor told him about a young staffer, name of Doyle, who’d just confirmed a whopper. Apparently some Canuck gal had resurrected the dead.
“What?”
“Exactly what I said. Some tyke from Kansas. Tell it to Toto, I says. But Doyle, he swears he talked to the kid, a preacher, and others. They’ll swear to the deed on a stack of bibles.”
Hearst’s heart skipped a beat.
“So what do I do?” asked the editor. “Run it? Bury it?”
Hearst gripped the phone. His voice spiralled into the stratosphere. “Front-page banner. You hear me? Every day. All week. And more! Get me more! I want more!”
On the Case
K. O. Doyle rolled back to The Ceeps at sunup, mighty sore at falling for Floyd’s midnight con. A trip to the London lockup had confirmed that the evangelist hadn’t hauled the doll anywhere near the joint. He flopped on his bed for some shut-eye, but within minutes the desk clerk was at his door with a cable from his editor.
THE CHIEF IS HOT TO TROT. HAS SENT METROTONE CREW. ARRIVAL TWO THIRTY. GET THE KID. GET THE GIRL. GET GOING.
Christ on a pogo stick! Hearst’s Metrotone crew cranked out newsreels for Bijous coast to coast! It could be his big break! Doyle scribbled a toothbrush across teeth and tongue, splashed his pits with aftershave, flew to the downstairs greasy spoon, inhaled a Maxwell House, fished ice cubes from his water glass and pressed them against his temples as he ran to the curbside cab.
A unt Grace set aside a batch of muffin batter to answer the front door. Who could be calling at 7:00 a.m.? If it wasn’t that scrawny little weasel with the lemon sours. What could he be up to? By the smell of him, no good.
Doyle apologized for the hour; it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps she’d heard of Mr. William Randolph Hearst? He was Hearst’s representative come to make arrangements for a newsreel on Timmy’s resurrection. If it’d be convenient perhaps, he could shoot a scene of the family in the front parlour at three?
The doughty Presbyterian tilted her chin. As a matter of fact, it would not be convenient. Her Timmy was convalescing, her husband was indisposed with sciatica, and she was baking muffins, following which she’d be visiting shut-ins. In any event, neither she nor hers would ever consent to parade themselves for the newsreels. Movie houses were nothing but dark, dingy holes of temptation leading the unemployed to indolence, youth to ruin, and lovebirds to hell in a handbasket. So, no, it would not be convenient to be filmed in her front parlour this afternoon, or on any other, come to think of it, and she would thank Mr. Doyle to remove himself from her property forthwith and henceforward.
Doyle allowed as he’d respect her wishes and instruct the crew to steer clear. He’d go down the road apiece and talk about Timmy in front of that old tarpaper shack with the oil bin on the front porch.
“Not the Dickie place!” Aunt Grace gasped.
Was that the name of it? With the front yard covered in rusty car parts, and the broken windows by soiled bedsheets?
“Jack Dickie is a good-for-nothing Methodist gone bad. Don’t you dare shoot your story there! Folks’ll be getting the idea it’s our place.”
They might, he shrugged. Might fancy as well that she and her hubby were the sort to live within — gin-soaked rubes no better than they ought to be — or wonder what sinister goings-on had led them to keep wee Timmy under wraps. Was the lad an American captive in some
“I heard screaming.”
“Oh?” Hearst laughed. “And here I thought it was the telephone.” He motioned Willicombe to a chair, and picked up the receiver. “The Chief here. What’s up?”
The call was from one of his syndicates, King Features. Hearst listened as the senior editor told him about a young staffer, name of Doyle, who’d just confirmed a whopper. Apparently some Canuck gal had resurrected the dead.
“What?”
“Exactly what I said. Some tyke from Kansas. Tell it to Toto, I says. But Doyle, he swears he talked to the kid, a preacher, and others. They’ll swear to the deed on a stack of bibles.”
Hearst’s heart skipped a beat.
“So what do I do?” asked the editor. “Run it? Bury it?”
Hearst gripped the phone. His voice spiralled into the stratosphere. “Front-page banner. You hear me? Every day. All week. And more! Get me more! I want more!”
On the Case
K. O. Doyle rolled back to The Ceeps at sunup, mighty sore at falling for Floyd’s midnight con. A trip to the London lockup had confirmed that the evangelist hadn’t hauled the doll anywhere near the joint. He flopped on his bed for some shut-eye, but within minutes the desk clerk was at his door with a cable from his editor.
THE CHIEF IS HOT TO TROT. HAS SENT METROTONE CREW. ARRIVAL TWO THIRTY. GET THE KID. GET THE GIRL. GET GOING.
Christ on a pogo stick! Hearst’s Metrotone crew cranked out newsreels for Bijous coast to coast! It could be his big break! Doyle scribbled a toothbrush across teeth and tongue, splashed his pits with aftershave, flew to the downstairs greasy spoon, inhaled a Maxwell House, fished ice cubes from his water glass and pressed them against his temples as he ran to the curbside cab.
A unt Grace set aside a batch of muffin batter to answer the front door. Who could be calling at 7:00 a.m.? If it wasn’t that scrawny little weasel with the lemon sours. What could he be up to? By the smell of him, no good.
Doyle apologized for the hour; it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps she’d heard of Mr. William Randolph Hearst? He was Hearst’s representative come to make arrangements for a newsreel on Timmy’s resurrection. If it’d be convenient perhaps, he could shoot a scene of the family in the front parlour at three?
The doughty Presbyterian tilted her chin. As a matter of fact, it would not be convenient. Her Timmy was convalescing, her husband was indisposed with sciatica, and she was baking muffins, following which she’d be visiting shut-ins. In any event, neither she nor hers would ever consent to parade themselves for the newsreels. Movie houses were nothing but dark, dingy holes of temptation leading the unemployed to indolence, youth to ruin, and lovebirds to hell in a handbasket. So, no, it would not be convenient to be filmed in her front parlour this afternoon, or on any other, come to think of it, and she would thank Mr. Doyle to remove himself from her property forthwith and henceforward.
Doyle allowed as he’d respect her wishes and instruct the crew to steer clear. He’d go down the road apiece and talk about Timmy in front of that old tarpaper shack with the oil bin on the front porch.
“Not the Dickie place!” Aunt Grace gasped.
Was that the name of it? With the front yard covered in rusty car parts, and the broken windows by soiled bedsheets?
“Jack Dickie is a good-for-nothing Methodist gone bad. Don’t you dare shoot your story there! Folks’ll be getting the idea it’s our place.”
They might, he shrugged. Might fancy as well that she and her hubby were the sort to live within — gin-soaked rubes no better than they ought to be — or wonder what sinister goings-on had led them to keep wee Timmy under wraps. Was the lad an American captive in some
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