McAllister remained calm. "What kind of story is it? Did Yiriger give you anything?"
She peeled through her notebook, stopped here and there to read McAllister the quotes.
"Not bad," the managing editor conceded, "but no hard news."
"I think it's pretty interesting."
"A sidebar, a human interest feature."
"From an animal," Victoria said.
"What?"
"Never mind. Yinger resents being called an animal. Do you want me to write it here and call it in to the news desk? Or just come back and write it at the paper?"
McAllister sounded strangely detached. "Would you prefer to write it here?"
"Well, naturally. I'm in a gas station, in the middle of a bunch of oilcans. But I can do it if—"
"No rush, Vicky. I'll see that the bullpen editors have a summary. We'll make a place for you in the dummy. Even if you're as late as ten o'clock—"
Victoria peered at her wristwatch. "Oh, I won't be."
"Even if you're that late, you can make the Late City Edition that rolls at midnight. If you miss that, there's a two A,M. deadline for the cleanup edition."
"I'll be there way before."
"We're running a little behind tonight, anyway," he said vaguely. "So don't worry. You don't have to phone anything in. Just come home."
"I'll be on my way soon. Be sure to alert Photo for some pictures of Sam Yinger—close-ups, I think—"
"They're already on my desk."
"Repeat—I'll be back soon."
But it was not soon at all. Victoria's original relief that she did not have to phone the story in from the gas station was soon replaced by growing distress at her constantly delayed return to the city. The recharging of the battery would have thrown Job into a fit. Then, using a map, she tried to reverse the route she had taken from Manhattan. Reading the map was like reading the Rosetta stone.
The early part of her journey through the Hudson Valley went hummingly. Nearing the city, at night, she had to slow down. Before she crossed the Harlem River, she became confused by the maze of interchanges and constantly took a wrong turning and constantly was lost.
The third time she got badly lost, she left the Expressway and found an all-night Gulf station, determined to get the rest of the way right. As she walked toward the station, located at a busy intersection, she saw that there was a newsstand on the corner, and a number of pedestrians were crowding about the elderly proprietor who was kneeling over a bundle of papers, distributing copies left and right. He was shouting something indistinctly, but she thought that she heard him use Yinger's name.
Curious, Victoria detoured toward the newsstand and the old man. It was the New York Record that he was selling and the front-page headline was bold:
YINGER ESCAPES PRISON ON EVE OF EXECUTION
The headline shocked her, and she moved quickly into the newly formed line for a copy of the paper. Biding her time, she could see piles of the New York Times, its front page without mention of the Yinger escape. There were copies of New York Daily News and New York Post, and they were also Yingerless, but then they were earlier editions.
The New York Record alone had the sensational beat, and she had a copy in hand now, while paying the man.
She unfolded the front page and swiftly scanned the exclusive story. There it was. Yinger's incredible last-minute escape. His cell had been found empty at dinnertime. There had been some laxity in not spotting his flight earlier, the guards lulled by the fact that his cell was on Death Row. Yinger had apparently wriggled down a vent pipe to a subbasement, found a tunnel beneath Green Haven prison, inched his way through the narrow tunnel and under the prison wall and, many yards beyond, had broken through the thin layer of turf and got away in the darkness. He might be armed and dangerous. There was evidence, an imprint in the soil, that suggested some excavating inmate had stashed a gun at the escape hatch. There was also evidence, footprints and other signs farther on, that Yinger had been headed south toward New York City. There was an all-points bulletin out for his capture and arrest. To Victoria, that meant that Sam Yinger would be shot on sight.
Going toward the filling station, Victoria's mind reeled at the turn of events. How could Yinger have known of that secret tunnel? Only two of them at the newspaper knew about it—she herself, and McAllister. And McAllister had known it was off the record. Nor would he have had reason—or the means—to convey the information to Yinger. Then she realized that she and McAllister had known because Gus Pagano had informed her about the tunnel. Pagano, of course. He was hardly what one would call a sterling character. He was a criminal. He would have sold the information for a payoff, and the information had gone to another convict on Death Row who had passed it along to Yinger. And Yinger had acted fast and daringly. And successfully. Somehow the Record had it as an exclusive.
She caught another glimpse of the corner newsstand. More people gathering. More papers selling steadily. But only one paper was selling because it had the big story. The New York Record was a runaway tonight.
Somehow, she felt a pride in belonging.
Continuing to the station, she wondered if her interview with Sam Yinger meant anything anymore. His pre-execution story had been fully supplanted by his freedom story. Her own interview would no longer be as newsworthy, Victoria realized, but it still might make a colorful sidebar. She must keep going and write that story.
Once inside the filling station, she had a ten-minute wait before a gas pump attendant was free to help her. Again, an open map. Again, a Rosetta stone. But now the directions were clearer because her destination was nearer.
Eager to get to her story, eager to satisfy her curiosity about her paper's scoop, Victoria was on the run to her Chevrolet. She pulled away from the curb fast, but was soon enmeshed in heavy traffic and slowed to a crawl.
It was slightly after nine o'clock in the evening when she turned into Park Avenue and headed for the Armstead Building. She had rewritten the lead of her interview with Yinger a half-dozen times in her head, and even in light of the new development it worked. Nor was she worried about her tardiness. She recalled that McAllister had said the deadline for the Late City Edition was ten o'clock. Her dashboard clock promised her that there would be time enough to make it if she got straight to her desk and banged the story out.
By the time she was idling at the next stoplight, she was mentally rewriting her story one last time, editing out Yinger's foul language. Her mind reached the final paragraph:
"When asked whether there was anything he was interested in doing if he could get out of prison, Sam Yinger made it clear that there was only one reason he would like to be free. 'I'd like revenge. There were people who treated me unfair in the trial.' visualized the closing quote: "I'm talking about the D.A. . . I never liked the way he talked about me to the jury. He called me an animal . . . I'd like to show him you can't treat another human being like that. It's the only thing I'd like to be free for—to kill that Van Dusen."
In those last seconds, a cold chill began to creep over Victoria's flesh.
Yinger was free right now, tonight.
He had a gun, and he was thought to be heading for New York.
If he was to be believed, he had only one animal motive to take him there. To kill. To kill for revenge. To kill District Attorney Van Dusen.
Victoria knew it, but no one else in the city knew it—least of all District Attorney Van Dusen.
In those seconds of realization, Victoria was immobilized by fright.
The horns of the cars behind her startled her into action. Aware that the stoplight had turned green, she stepped on the gas, moving her vehicle slowly until she could cut into the right-hand lane. At the first opportunity she spun off Park into a one-way street and searched for a telephone. Past Madison Avenue there were restaurants open, but no place to park. When she reached Fifth Avenue, she recalled there were two public telephones on a corner a block away. She swung into Fifth, followed the traffic, grat
efully spotted the telephones outside the Doubleday Book Shop. Desperately seeking a place to leave her car, she saw a cab draw away from the curb, and quickly slipped into the empty parking space.
Shutting off the engine, she jumped out of the car and ran to the telephones. One was unoccupied. She knew that she had plenty of small change.
Now she must keep her wits about her. Yinger was after District Attorney Van Dusen. She must locate Van Dusen. Not easy at this hour, but she must find him and warn him before it was too late.
She started dialing. It was as if a Great Wall of Operators blocked her. Casual, unhurried operators, not interested in her frantic haste.
At last she had an operator at the Criminal Courts Building. "Give me the district attorney's office," Victoria begged. "I've got to speak to Mr. Van Dusen. It's urgent."
Another gum-chewing voice. "He's not in. No one is. Hey, don't you know what time it is? Try tomorrow."
"Tomorrow may be too late. Someone's life is involved."
"Well, maybe I can find somebody to talk to you. Let me connect you with the supervisor in the complaint room. He's sure to be there. Hold on."
There was a series of clicks. Some static.
A man's voice. Tired voice. "Berger. Complaints."
Victoria tried to keep her tone steady. "I'm Victoria Weston. I'm a reporter on the New York Record. I must speak to the district attorney on an urgent matter—"
"I'm sorry, miss, you have the wrong department."
"I've got to get hold of Mr. Van Dusen. It's important, I tell you."
"I'd suggest you try his office in the morning."
He may be dead in the morning."
"We all may be," said the supervisor cheerfully. "Now if you have a legitimate complaint—"
"My complaint is that no one will help me contact the district attorney."
"Forget about doing it tonight. He's at the testimonial dinner for the mayor at the Plaza."
"Where?"
"The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel."
Victoria thanked him, slammed the receiver down on the hook. The Plaza wasn't too far to make it on foot, but she reconsidered. Too far to walk in an emergency. She made for her car, and tried to find the quickest route to the Plaza.
Twelve minutes later she pulled up in front of the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to the Plaza. She gave her car (and a generous tip) to the uniformed doorman to park and hurried up the steps into the busy lobby of the Plaza. She lurched into an open and crowded elevator, calling out to be let off at the Grand Ballroom.
Emerging into the jammed marble foyer, she noted the time, ten-thirty, and noted dressy people leaving the ballroom. The mayor's dinner was just beginning to break up. She looked for a familiar face, an official face, and her eyes came to rest on a blue-uniformed policeman.
She clutched at the policeman's sleeve. "Officer, can you help me?"
He seemed surprised by her anxiety-ridden countenance. "Something the matter, miss?"
"I've got to speak to District Attorney Van Dusen."
"Forget it, young lady. He's on the stage with the mayor, with orders not to be disturbed. There's no way they'll let you in there."
"But listen—"
"Sorry, miss."
Victoria slumped in frustration, backed off, and became aware of an anemic-appearing, bespectacled young man staring at her. He took a few tentative steps toward her.
"Pardon me, you're Vicky Weston, the new girl on the Record, aren't you?"
"Yes," she admitted.
"I met you yesterday when Nick—Nick Ramsey—was taking you around. We were introduced. I'm Jim Purdy, metropolitan desk. What are you doing here?"
She grabbed hold of him as if he were a life belt. "Jim, listen, you can help me. I've got to see Van Dusen—"
"Not much chance of that right now. Can't it wait?"
"No, it can't. Will you listen to what's happened?" She spilled out the details of her interview at Green Haven with Sam Yinger, the killer's statement that if he were free he'd go after Van Dusen, and now the knowledge that Yinger was free.
Purdy was cautiously impressed. "He actually stated he'd try to get the D.A.? Did you believe him? Maybe he was just crowing for you, for your story."
"You'd have believed him if you'd been there and heard him say it. Anyway, I think Van Dusen should hear about it. Do you know anyone who can get to him?"
"I can get to him," said Purdy. "My beat is Van Dusen and criminal courts. Let me see what I can do."
Victoria followed Purdy to the ballroom doors, heard him whisper to two police guards, saw a door open, and was able to peer around the reporter's head as he looked inside. Victoria could see, beneath the two magnificent chandeliers, tables and tables of formally attired men and women. Dignitaries on the distant stage were standing.
Purdy called back to her, "Van Dusen's just said good-bye to the mayor. He's coming down the stage steps toward the aisle. Let me see if I can get to him. Wait here."
With assent from the guards, Purdy entered the room, hurried down to the carpeted aisle where a tall, thin man in a tuxedo, obviously District Attorney Van Dusen, was making his way between the tables, acknowledging greetings from guests. Halfway along, Purdy intercepted him and began addressing him. Van Dusen leaned over to listen, glanced up, and started toward the doorway where Victoria was waiting.
The district attorney reached Victoria, towering over her. "You Miss Weston? Purdy tells me that you have important information—something about Sam Yinger wanting to kill me—it's not clear—"
"You know of Yinger's escape?"
"I know from Green Haven—and from your newspaper," he said wryly.
"I interviewed Yinger at the prison this afternoon. I asked him what he'd like to do if he were free. He told me that the one reason he'd like to be free is to kill you."
Van Dusen frowned. "He really said that?"
"I have my notes. He actually said it."
"You think he meant it?"
"I think he did. After all, he had no compunction about killing six children." Victoria wanted to emphasize her belief. "I'm sure he meant it. He hates you for calling him an animal in court."
"He is an animal," Van Dusen said.
"And now he's on the loose," said Victoria.
The district attorney beckoned to a man who had just come out of the ballroom. As Victoria wondered who the man was, she found Van Dusen taking her hand. "I want to thank you, Miss—"
"Victoria Weston. The New York Record."
"—yes, Miss Weston. The chief of police, here, will take immediate precautions. He'll double my protection. Can you spare a few moments more? I want you to tell the chief what you told me. Again, my thanks. I may owe you my life."
It was several minutes before midnight when Victoria, on the verge of exhaustion, stumbled through the thinly populated newsroom of the Record on the way to her desk. She pulled her notebook out of her purse, praying she had enough strength left to write up her Yinger interview before it was too late.
When she arrived at her desk, she found her swivel chair amply occupied. A lazy, and perhaps partially intoxicated, Nick Ramsey lolled in her chair, one long leg hooked over the armrest.
"Just keeping the seat warm for Lois Lane," he said.
"I appreciate that," said Victoria. "Now if you don't mind moving, I have a story to write."
"Don't bother."
Victoria's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Your story's just been canceled."
"Why?"
"Hotter news. What you have is old news by now." Ramsey removed his leg from the chair arm and straightened up. "Sam Yinger is dead."
"What?" Victoria said with disbelief.
"Yup." Ramsey stood up. "Purdy phoned it in from the D.A.'s Gracie Square residence five minutes ago. Van Dusen was returning home from the mayor's testimonial. Sam Yinger was lying in wait with a gun, ready to assassinate the D.A. Before he could take aim, the D.A.'s guards gunned him down. Maybe a doz
en shots to Yinger's chest and head. He was killed instantly. The D.A. survived unscathed." Ramsey smiled. "Thanks to you."
Victoria moved her head dumbly, trying to comprehend the sudden turn of events.
"It's right there in Purdy's lead, Girl reporter from the Record saves D.A.'s life. Van Dusen gave you credit by name."
"But my story? There's still a story."
"Old news, Vicky dear. After that Yinger escaped. Yinger stalked the D.A. Weston alerted the D.A. Yinger was executed hours earlier than planned. Good-bye, Yinger. Old news."
"Old news," said Victoria dully. "Maybe I should have got my story in earlier. What will Mr. Armstead think?"
"Can't say. Van Dusen thinks you're a heroine. Edward Armstead—he'll either fire you or give you a raise." Ramsey hooked his arm through hers. "Right now, I'll tell you what I think. I think you need a drink."
CHAPTER FOUR
Harry Dietz could not remember, in all their years together, ever before having seen Edward Armstead as cheerful as he was this morning.
The publisher's handsome office was bathed in sunshine, which streamed in through the sliding glass doors that opened onto the balcony. It was as if Mother Nature had directed a special yellow spotlight on Edward Armstead. He leaned back, deep in his leather swivel chair, letting the sun warm his beaming face as he called across his massive oak desk to his assistant, "Tell me again, Harry."
Dutifully, Harry Dietz once more reviewed the sheet of paper on his lap. "Unofficial figures, mind you, but even if they are off, they won't be that much off. Yesterday, the daily New York Times sold, in round numbers, 86o,000 copies." He cleared his throat. "The New York Record sold 940,000 copies--all our new presses could turn out. You crushed them. You did it."
"Fantastic," crowed Armstead. "A runaway. The Yinger escape did it. Wow."
Armstead heard the intercom, and then his secretary's voice. "Mr. Armstead, I have Horace Liddington for you."
"Thanks, Estelle," said Armstead. "I'll take it." He winked at Dietz. "This'll knock our old legal-beagle on his ass." Armstead punched the button on his phone marked CO 1.
"Horace?"
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