A photograph — made grainy either by the snow flurries or poor reproduction — showed the prominent zeppelin tethered to the top of the skyscraper, like a plaything for Willis O'Brien's King Kong. Another photo, taken by a hardy amateur journalist who had stood out in the blizzard, showed the Hindenburg III from a distance framed by the towers and suspension cables of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Polly ignored the huge headline, though, and considered a small article on the bottom of the page, which was much more important to her. She turned the newspaper over, leaning close and smiling as she scanned the words, alert for typographical errors
POLICE SEEK MISSING SCIENTIST
by
Her blue eyes lingered on the byline before turning to the rest of the article. Accompanying the text was another grainy photograph, at least ten years old, but it was the best she could find in all the Chronicle's archives. Dr. Jorge Vargas had apparently disappeared as soon as the zeppelin docked, and she hoped readers might be able to identify the man, even if the picture was out-of-date.
It would be quite a scoop if she could find him herself.
Demure and unflappable, Polly was the Chronicle's crack investigative reporter — at least she considered herself to be. Her editor, Morris Paley, suggested she still needed a few more credentials. As soon as he'd said that, his baggy eyes suddenly lit up in alarm. 'Now, Polly, that doesn't mean I want you to get yourself in trouble!'
'I don't want to get in trouble, Mr. Paley. I want to get the news. Sometimes you have to do one to accomplish the other.' She had smiled and shooed him away so she could get back to her typing on a well-used black Royal typewriter. Editor Paley had lingered at the office doorway, paternally worried about her, but Polly had ignored him. With her icy coolness, she would one day convince him that she could take care of herself…
Now, turning back to her typewriter, she became lost in her own thought, her fingers pounding the keys furiously. Dr. Vargas was just the latest in a disturbing string of disappearances of prominent scientists who had worked in Germany for decades. She had noticed the connection and tracked down five other incidents where researchers had inexplicably vanished. Polly had written several articles, and Editor Paley had printed them, sometimes prominently and other times at the back of the section.
So far, she hadn't managed to create much of a hue and cry. Nobody else believed the seriousness of the situation, but someone out there must have been reading and wondering. This latest disappearance seemed even more suspicious than the other five. With all the details she'd pieced together, it was plain to her that Dr. Vargas had been attempting to flee something…
The intercom on Polly's desk buzzed, and she stopped typing to flip the switch.
'There's a package for you, Miss Perkins.'
'Thanks, Isabel. I'll be right there.'
Down in the Chronicle lobby, Polly rapped her fingers impatiently on the front desk. Her wavy golden hair was neat and perfect, partially pinned up with barrettes, but she did not waste her time with complicated and fashionable new styles. She wore a smart business dress and black shoes with sensible low heels that would allow her to run after a story (or run from one, if the circumstances turned out badly). Polly had a catlike mouth with full red lips, a delicately pointed nose, and a calm, strong beauty that set her apart from the wilting, giggling lovelies who spent their days trying to snag the attentions of men.
The lobby receptionist, on the other hand, walked like a wiggling duck in her tight red dress and high heels as she returned from the storeroom with a small brown package. 'Here you are, Miss Perkins.'
Polly took the package with a curious frown. 'I'm not expecting anything, Isabel. Do you know who — '
'They didn't leave a name. Said it was important.' As Polly hefted the package, then tore the paper away to reveal an old hardcover book, Isabel leaned over her counter. 'Is that one of those new bestseller novels?'
Polly glanced at the title stamped in gold foil on a leatherette cover. Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy by Sir Isaac Newton.
'I don't think so, Isabel. Something a bit more classic.'
In truth, she had no idea what it could mean. Curious, she flipped open the front cover to find a loose movie theater ticket for an evening showing of The Wizard of Oz. A note had been hastily scribbled on the inside jacket in thin, spidery letters:
I know who's next. Meet me tonight at 6:00. Come alone!
3
The Editor and the Gun. A Clandestine Meeting. A Missed Opportunity
Reporters were good at protecting sources and keeping secrets. Working for the Chronicle was a tough business, and Polly had learned how to avoid obstacles or knock them aside. Not long after she received her mysterious message, she crept into her dimly lighted office and moved toward a row of filing cabinets. In the dim illumination, the beehive of Manhattan's lights began to glow through the window behind her. Although the newspaper offices were quiet after the close of business, Polly moved with unnecessary furtiveness. She slid open the top drawer of the filing cabinet and reached inside as far as her arm would go to rummage behind the file folders. From the back she withdrew a gilded oak box and brought it to her desk, where she moved pencils and notepads aside. With the fingernail of her index finger, she popped open the catch and lifted the lid of the case.
'I've got a job for you tonight — I hope,' she said to the small camera that rested neatly inside the padding. Polly gingerly lifted the camera out of the box, expertly checked the mechanism, loaded fresh film, clicked the shutter, and adjusted the lens cap. Satisfied, she slung the leather camera strap over her shoulder. The camera was a vital tool of the trade, her secret weapon to be used only for the most important stories. And if this strange message in Newton's book had anything to do with the missing scientists, she didn't want to take any chances…
With the Leica ready to go, Polly dug even deeper in the back of the filing cabinet and pulled out a.45 caliber Colt service revolver and a small box of bullets. She suspected there might be some shooting tonight — either with the camera or the revolver.
She swung open the revolver's cylinder and casually spun it. She had loaded two of the six empty chambers when someone suddenly flipped on the lights. Momentarily blinded but moving with swift reflexes, Polly spun around, holding the revolver ready.
Standing in the doorway was a gray-haired man in his late sixties. Completely undisturbed by the gun pointed at him, Editor Paley let out a long, slow sigh and shook his head. 'Polly, why do you do this to me? Where did I go wrong as your editor?'
Nonchalantly, Polly continued to feed bullets into the revolver. 'This?' She raised the heavy gun. 'Colt New Service M1917. It's just a toy. My grandma gave it to me.'
'I'm sending one of the boys with you. I don't like this business you're getting yourself into.' He gestured to the revolver. 'And that stays here. No arguments.'
Polly didn't have any intention of arguing… or listening. 'I'll be fine, Mr. Paley. You know what a careful girl I am.' She spun the cylinder shut and stuffed the Colt into her shoulder bag.
'My mouth moves, words come out, and you don't hear them.'
'Oh, I hear them.' She caught a glimpse of the big clock on the wall, then grabbed her bag and headed for the door. 'I'm late for a movie. The Wizard of Oz — have you seen it?'
'I hear it's good, but I doubt it can compete with Gone with the Wind. My wife liked that one.' Editor Paley had three grown daughters, none of whom had ever given him any trouble; Polly, though, wasn't anything like them. When she flashed a smile that made him flinch, he said, 'Polly, I don't like it when you smile at me.'
'You don't like my smile?' She smiled again, brighter this time.
