“Wilco!”
“I guess you know what’s biting me. Knight’s type of reporting has won him a lot of enemies, and I want to be sure they haven’t had anything to do with this.”
“Well, O.K.,” said Ronald, a little doubtfully.
“What’s on your mind, Wilford?”
“It’s just that I can’t imagine Knight running away from trouble. He isn’t that kind. And it certainly looks to me as though he left voluntarily.”
“Unless he was threatened.”
“That’s just it. I don’t think Knight would give in to threats.”
“Look at it another way, Wilford. He isn’t the kind who would just go off without letting us know, either. He doesn’t always tell what kind of investigation he’s working on, but he usually tells how long he’s going to be gone and where we can reach him. If he isn’t working on a case, and he hasn’t left because of threats, what’s he up to, anyway?”
“I’ll get right at it,” Ronald agreed, as the editor finally stopped pacing and sat down at the desk. “Any ideas where it might be best to start? How about my trying to locate this Dixie Orlando on Short Vincent?”
“Wilford,” said Burnett patiently, “in many ways I’m a hardhearted man, but I don’t believe in throwing a lamb to the wolves. Now don’t get sore about my calling you a lamb. It’s only that you’re new to the city and aren’t ready for Short Vincent yet. A reporter can’t get along in this city without knowing Short Vincent, but there’ll be plenty of time later for you. Ask Miss Curtis to let you see Knight’s story about it sometime. There’d be a good place to start, Wilford—with Miss Curtis. She knows more about Knight’s affairs than I do. Work along with her, use your expense account liberally if necessary, and give me progress reports from time to time—but stay away from Short Vincent! When those guys put two and two together, they generally come up with six.”
Ronald found Miss Curtis at her desk, which was buried under the weight of Knight’s correspondence, a job she was trying to handle in his absence.
“Is it always this bad?” he asked her.
“Oh, no, it all depends. Sometimes it slackens down to only twenty or thirty letters a day. But just after Knight has published one of his exposé series of articles, the tide seems to come rolling in.”
“What’s this tide from? Knight hasn’t done anything like that for the last couple of weeks.”
“No, this is about the last sweep from that series he did on the slot-machine racket. I imagine it’s about over by now. People get all stirred up for a while, but they won’t do anything very constructive about it, and soon it all blows over and things are back operating just about the way they were before.” She sighed.
Accustomed though he was to sitting on the edges of desks, which seemed to provide just about the proper amount of stretch for his long legs, Ronald decided there wasn’t room this time, and he pulled over a chair instead.
“Miss Curtis, Burnett wants you to work with me on this Knight affair—doesn’t want me to stop until I find him.”
“That sounds logical,” she decided, turning from the correspondence with a hopeless air and facing Ronald. “I’d say I’m pretty deeply in it already.”
“Now the question is where to begin. Did you ever hear of a man named Dixie Orlando?”
She studied him for a moment. “What do you know about Orlando?”
“Knight was asking for him just before he disappeared.”
She considered the matter. “I really didn’t want to say anything, Ronald, but I suppose it’s best. Dixie Orlando was one of Knight’s Short Vincent informants. I don’t know too much about what went on—this was one of the things that Knight covered up from me. But I have reason to believe he often acted as Knight’s leg man for out-of-town assignments. I wasn’t supposed to know about this. Often letters would come in, in a certain style of handwriting. They were marked personal, so I never opened them. And there was never any return address. But you know how hard it is to keep a secret like that from a secretary. A letter would come in, and I would lay it aside for Knight. Sometime afterward he would remark something about Dixie Orlando. Of course it didn’t take me long to put things together and figure out that these letters came from Orlando.”
“Where were they postmarked?”
“A good many of them came from the state capital—not always, though.”
“What do you know about Orlando? Is he the criminal type?”
“I—I really couldn’t say about that. Don’t misunderstand me. Knight wouldn’t consort with questionable characters, not even for the sake of a story. But he had a peculiar philosophy. He said that you have to judge a man by what he is now—not by what he used to be. This might have applied to Orlando.”
“Supposing that Orlando did have a doubtful past, isn’t it possible he might have turned criminal again? Could he have become violent, threatened Knight, anything like that?”
“I don’t think so, Ronald. I never met him personally, but from the things Knight said about him—no, I don’t believe anything like that could have happened.”
Ronald meditated. “Just the same I’d like to know what it was Knight wanted to see Orlando about. I wanted to go down to Short Vincent and inquire about him, but Burnett said no.”
“Burnett’s right,” Miss Curtis assured him. “That’s not the way you do things on Short Vincent. Even Knight, you observed, didn’t do that. Why, if you really had anything on him, you might scare him all the way to California before you could put your finger on him.”
“Haven’t you ever been down to Short Vincent?” he asked curiously.
“For lunch, yes—but not as a reporter. That’s why it’s more important for you to watch your step.”
“Then what do I do?”
“As far as Short Vincent is concerned, you don’t do anything at all. You wait for Short Vincent to come to you.”
The situation could hardly have been more puzzling to Ronald, but he knew by now that there are angles to big-city reporting that aren’t found in a small town. Miss Curtis must be right, for Burnett had warned him about Short Vincent, too. He leaned back in the swivel chair.
“Then as long as Short Vincent seems to be out for the moment, I can only think of two other approaches. One is to find out all I can about Barry Knight. The other is to find out all I can about his possible enemies.”
“You might find both of those pretty tall orders,” Miss Curtis smiled. “About Knight because you’ll get too little, about his enemies because you’ll get too much. Knight never talks much about himself. I can get his personal file, and that’s about all you’ll get. For the other, I think you’d better narrow it down, at least at first. This slot-machine case was his last big story. Why don’t we assume for the time being that’s where we ought to look? And if we don’t come up with something, we can always go further back.”
This sounded agreeable to Ronald, and he consented. As Miss Curtis was about to leave the office to get the files, he said, “Do you have a copy of that Short Vincent story Knight wrote? Burnett recommended that I read it.”
“In the folder in the left-hand drawer,” she replied, and left the room.
Ronald found the clipping without much trouble and read:
SHORT VINCENT KNOWS
by Barry Knight
There is a street in our town named Vincent Street, but more often called Short Vincent. Although located in the busy downtown section, it connects with two streets that are not main arteries, and so is comparatively little known.
Hemmed in by tall buildings, little sunshine penetrates here. It is a street of some top-grade hotels and some of lesser repute; of restaurants and bars; of back entrances to some famous enterprises and ménages.
Want to know Short Vincent? Put on your best suit, enter one of the restaurants there, have a good meal, and come out again—and you will have noticed nothing strange. But try it another way: Wear that older blue serge that’s just a little shiny, your heels a li
ttle rundown, your hair a little straggly. Sit on a stool in the restaurant instead of at a table, and give Short Vincent a chance to look you over and feel you out. Then maybe it’ll decide you belong.
Short Vincent is no Skid Row; it’s proud of its dignity. There are no brawls and few drunks. Hardly any of its denizens have criminal records of consequence. Your wallet is as safe here as it would be on Park Avenue. Got a few loose bucks? Short Vincent will be glad to relieve you of them, and you’ll have a good time the while. That’s only sharp. But pickpocketing? Don’t be silly. That would be dishonest!
What do you want at a bargain price? Short Vincent can get it for you wholesale, for everybody knows somebody who knows somebody who… Want to put down two bucks on the third race? Short Vincent wouldn’t dream of taking it, but there’s a fellow who knows a fellow… Point spots on the sports contests? Short Vincent knows them all, and one suspects that most of them were calculated right here.
Why didn’t Avila try a squeeze bunt in the ninth inning against the Yankees? The sports writers don’t know. The people who watched from the stands or on television don’t know. But Short Vincent knows the reason. One reason? Nay, that would be doing Short Vincent an injustice. Short Vincent knows a dozen reasons, mutually contradictory and all equally implausible.
How’s the jury going to decide? Acquittal, of course. Short Vincent knows. Something that got past the judge, the third juror is the strangled wife of the victim’s second cousin. How does Short Vincent know? Nobody knows. Short Vincent will be glad to tell you anything at all—except how Short Vincent found out. That is each individual’s secret, no matter what incredible explanation he may offer.
In short, Short Vincent is a street of guys who are in the know. It is a seething, whirling hotbed of rumor. Absurd, impossible? That has no meaning here. Even the fantastic becomes the rational when passed along in a whisper.
Friends do not always speak on Short Vincent. One friend will offer a tentative glance, which the other may accept or reject. And then they may decide to speak—but no names, please; it’s better not to use names. And the first cool breeze sends coat collars up and hat brims slouching down. On Short Vincent everybody looks the part.
What are these characters after, anyway? Money? No one’s getting rich on Short Vincent.
Prestige? There’s little of that here; the stuffed shirt would be better advised to stay home. The kingpin of the moment is the guy with the hottest tip, the latest anecdote, the most incredible gossip. “Connections”—that is the thing that gives each man his moment in the sun, and so becomes the secret he would guard with his life.
And that, perhaps, is the best explanation of Short Vincent. Not understanding themselves, these guys cannot be understood by others; they lose themselves in extrospection to avoid the necessity of introspection; guys with a heart, with reasonable success, but still lacking something, and so they supplement their daily existence by the vicarious thrill of being in the know.
Weird, Ronald thought, hardly knowing whether he ought to smile or not. In the newspaper business you expected to run into some odd ducks, but he had never before encountered a whole collection of them quite like this. Before he could speculate further, Miss Curtis returned with an armful of folders.
The personal file was by far the smaller, and Ronald gave it his first attention. As Miss Curtis had told him, there wasn’t much. It appeared that Knight had come to the city immediately after graduating from high school, and this was his first job. There was a warm, friendly letter of introduction from a minister, reading simply:
TO WHOMEVER IT MAY CONCERN:
I have known Barry for a number of years, and he enjoys my highest trust and confidence. I am certain that he will adequately fulfill any tasks for which he may covenant.
Faithfully,
Gerald Milton, D.D.
The letter was typewritten on the letterhead of a church in the village of Imperial. The typing was a little uneven, with a number of erasures, suggesting that the minister himself might have typed it, rather than a trained secretary. However, as far as Ronald could tell, everything seemed to be in good order.
“Was this reference ever checked?” he inquired.
“I’m not sure, but probably not. An eighteen-year-old boy isn’t likely to have much of a past to conceal—at least, not a neat-appearing, ambitious boy who proves himself completely competent for his job. I think you’ll agree that Doctor Milton was right, that Knight has certainly been more than adequate.”
Ronald laid the letter aside. Very likely there wasn’t much use checking a reference like this. Almost everyone can find someone who will write a nice letter about him, and there were no past employers, who might have proved more critical. Since the letter could hardly be a forgery, Dr. Milton must have signed it in good faith. However, without implying any criticism of the ministry, Ronald’s past experience was that ministers are more likely to forgive people than to judge them, a quality of faith that sometimes sets them apart from the general population.
And that was really about all the personal file had to tell him, the remainder of the papers being nothing more than a cut-and-dried summary of Knight’s service on the newspaper. He turned his attention to the other file. Ronald was already familiar with the series of articles on the slot-machine racket, as they had appeared in the paper, but the file supplied a good many items of background that were missing from the published accounts. As usual, Knight had pulled no punches. He showed no hesitancy about mentioning names, and the name that popped up more often than any other was that of Freddie Uglancie. The implication was that Uglancie, now a respected citizen living in Shaker Heights, was actually the leader of slot-machine operations in the entire state.
Yet, oddly, when Ronald tried to check this charge, he could find virtually nothing in the file to sustain it.
“Miss Curtis, are these all the papers?” he questioned.
She looked at him oddly. “Of course not, Ronald. Knight had a collection of private papers that even I have never seen.”
“Where are they, at his home?”
“Certainly not. They’re in a special compartment in the office safe, to which only Knight has a key.”
“Well, what are the nature of these papers? Have you any idea?”
“Oh, yes, I could make a good guess. In his newspaper stories Knight only wrote as much as he could prove. He must have had a good deal of other information that he couldn’t prove—anyway not yet—and that information might prove very valuable to certain people.”
“People like Freddie Uglancie?”
“That’s about what I had in mind,” she admitted.
Ronald thought the matter over carefully, before remarking slowly, “Then it looks like this Freddie Uglancie may be the best lead we have so far. So what do I do about it?”
“Why not call him up and ask him for an interview?”
Ronald thought she was joking, but saw in a moment she wasn’t. “He’d never see me.”
“How do you know? You don’t take anything for granted in this business.” She reached for the phone. “Want me to try?”
Ronald shrugged. “What’s there to lose?”
Asking for an outside line, Miss Curtis dialed the number, then turned the phone over to Ronald. Someone, apparently a servant, answered the phone, and when Ronald asked for Mr. Uglancie, the connection was switched.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Uglancie? This is Ronald Wilford of the Star. I’d like to have an interview with you, if I may.”
“Why, certainly, Mr. Wilford,” Uglancie responded in a cordial voice. “Would eleven o’clock be convenient?”
“Perfectly. Thank you,” and Ronald replaced the receiver, puzzled. He had his interview with Uglancie, and now wondered almost desperately what on earth he would be able to say to him.
CHAPTER 3
An Unsatisfactory Interview
Because the rapid transit would get him out to Shaker Heights faster, Ronald did not
stop for his car, but went directly to the terminal. Within half an hour he stood before Uglancie’s fine suburban home and rang the door chimes. He was admitted by a servant, and after a short wait Uglancie came into the room.
“Well, Wilford,” he beamed, extending his hand, “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you yet, but I’m sure we’re going to get along fine.”
“How do you do, Mr. Uglancie,” Ronald responded, rising and accepting the hand. Although Uglancie wasn’t the kind of man for whom he had a great deal of respect, having accepted the hospitality of Uglancie’s home, it was necessary to observe the social proprieties.
“I hope you don’t mind my calling you Wilford,” Uglancie went on, “and I hope you’ll call me Freddie. Everybody does. It sounds so much friendlier.”
“Thank you, Mr. Uglancie,” said Ronald pointedly. It would have been too easy to forget the sort of man Uglancie was, to accept the friendship he seemed to be offering and then regret it afterward.
“Let’s sit down,” Uglancie urged, apparently choosing to ignore Ronald’s rebuff. “I know you newspaper boys are always in a rush, but it won’t hurt you to relax once in a while. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, I don’t care for anything, thank you.” Ronald had seated himself opposite Uglancie, and there was a slight pause. This was the awkward moment, and Ronald didn’t quite know how to begin. “I’m sure, Mr. Uglancie, that you’ve read the series of articles in the Star about you and the slot machines—”
“Don’t say slot machines,” said Uglancie with a pained look. “I know your headline writers have to compress words into a small space, but the correct term is coin-operated machines. Slot machines suggest gambling, the so-called one-armed bandits, and there are no such machines in this county, as far as I know.”
“Possibly not in this county, at least not operating openly. But in some other counties it’s fairly notorious—”
The Star Reporter Mystery Page 2
