“Of course not. Wishes—”
“Look at the book, John.”
MacVeagh looked. He read:
At this point in the debate His Majesty waxed exceeding wroth and smote the great oaken table with a mighty oath. “Nay,” he swore, “all of our powers they shall not take from us. We will sign the compact, but we will not relinquish all. For unto us and our loyal servitors must remain—”
“So what?” he said. “Fairy tales?”
Whalen Smith smiled. “Exactly. The annals of the court of His Majesty King O heron.”
“Which proves what?”
“You read it, didn’t you? I gave you the eyes to read—”
John MacVeagh looked back at the book. He had no great oaken table to smite, but he swore a mighty oath. For the characters were again strange and illegible.
“I can grant your wish, John,” said Whalen Smith with quiet assurance.
The front doorbell jangled.
“I’ll think about it,” said MacVeagh confusedly. “I’ll let you know—”
“Before midnight, John. I must be gone then,” said the printer.
Even an outsider to Grover would have guessed that the man waiting in the office was H. A. Hitchcock. He was obviously a man of national importance, from the polished tips of his shoes to the equally polished top of his head. He was well preserved and as proud of his figure as he was of his daughter’s or his accountant’s; but he somehow bulked as large as though he weighed two hundred.
The top of his head was gleaming with unusual luster at the moment, and his cheeks were red. “Sit down, MacVeagh,” he said, as authoritatively as though this was his own office.
John MacVeagh sat down, said, “Yes, Mr. Hitchcock?” and waited.
“Terrible thing,” Mr. Hitchcock sputtered. “Terrible. Poor Agnes— Some passing tramp, no doubt.”
“Probably,” John agreed. Inhabitants of Grover were hard to picture as murderers. “Anything taken?”
“Jewelry from the dressing table. Loose cash. Didn’t find the wall safe, fortunately. Chief Hanby’s quite satisfied. Must have been a tramp. Sent out a warning to state highway police.”
“That was wise.” He wondered why H. A. Hitchcock had bothered to come here just for this. Molly would bring it to him shortly. He felt a minor twinge of regret—passing tramps aren’t good copy, even when their victim is a magnate’s sister.
“Hanby’s satisfied,” Mr. Hitchcock went on. “You understand that?”
“Of course.”
“So I don’t want you or your girl reporter questioning him and stirring up a lot of confusion. No point to it.”
“If the chief’s satisfied, we aren’t apt to shake him.”
“And I don’t want any huggermugger. I know you newspapermen. Anything for a story. Look at the way the press associations treated that strike. What happened? Nothing. Just a little necessary discipline. And you’d think it was a massacre. So I want a soft pedal on poor Agnes’ death. You understand? Just a few paragraphs— mysterious marauder—you know.”
“It looks,” said MacVeagh ruefully, “as though that was all it was going to be worth.”
“No use mentioning that Philip and Laura were in the house. Matter of fact, so was I. We didn’t see anything. She’d gone upstairs. No point to our evidence. Leave us out of it.”
MacVeagh looked up with fresh interest. “All of you there? All of you downstairs and a passing tramp invades the upstairs and gets away with—”
“Damn clever, some of these criminals. Know the ropes. If I’d laid my hands on the— Well, that won’t bring Agnes back to life. Neither will a scare story. Had enough unfavorable publicity lately. So keep it quiet. Don’t trust that reporter of yours; don’t know what wild yarns she might bring back to you. Thought I’d get it all straight for you.”
“Uh-huh.” MacVeagh nodded abstractedly. “You were all together downstairs, you and Laura and Philip?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Hitchcock. He didn’t hesitate, but MacVeagh sensed a lie.
“Hm-m-m,” was all he said.
“Don’t you believe me? Ask Laura. Ask Philip.”
“I intend to,” said John MacVeagh quietly.
Mr. Hitchcock opened his mouth and stared. “There’s no need for that, young man. No need at all. Any necessary facts you can get from me. I’d sooner you didn’t bother my daughter or my nephew or the chief. They have enough trouble.”
MacVeagh rose from behind his desk. “There’s been a murder,” he said slowly. “The people of Grover want to know the truth. Wherever there’s an attempt to cover up, you can be pretty sure that there’s something to cover. Whatever it is, the Sentinel’s going to print it. Good night, Mr. Hitchcock.”
With the full realization of what MacVeagh meant, Mr. Hitchcock stopped spluttering. There was nothing of the turkey cock about him now. He was quiet and deadly as he said, “I’ll talk to Mr. Manson tomorrow.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. My debt to Manson’s bank was paid off last month.
We haven’t been doing badly since the influx of your workers doubled our circula• » tion.
“And I think that our plant’s printing will be more efficiently and economically handled in the city.”
“As you wish. We can make out without it.” He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.
“And you understand that my daughter will hardly be interested in seeing you after this?”
“I understand. You understand, too, that her refusal to see the press might easily be misconstrued under the circumstances?”
Mr. Hitchcock said nothing. He did not even glare. He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door gently. His quiet exit was more effectively threatening than any blustering and slamming could have been.
MacVeagh stood by the desk a moment and thought about Rubicons and stuff. His eyes were hard and his lips firmly set when he looked up as Whalen entered.
“It’s almost midnight,” the old printer said.
MacVeagh grabbed the phone. “Two three two,” he said. “You’re still bound to walk out on me, Whalen?”
“Needs must, John.”
“OK. I can make out without you. I can make out without H. A. Hitchcock and his— Hello? Mrs. Belden? . . . MacVeagh speaking.
