CHAPTER 5 AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW

After her father had gone, Penny remained in the private office. Eager to be off, Mr. Parker had neglected to make any arrangements concerning the stripped car at the Riverview Yacht Club.

“Oh, bother!” she thought impatiently. “Now I must wait here until he comes back to learn what I’m to do. The car should be hauled home.”

Penny wrote a letter on the typewriter. As she searched for a stamp, the door swung open. A slightly bald, angular man with hard brown eyes, paused on the threshold. The man was Harley Schirr, an assistant editor, next in authority to Mr. DeWitt. Of the entire Star staff, he was the only person Penny actively disliked.

“Oh, good morning, Miss Parker,” he said with elaborate courtesy. “Your father isn’t here?”

“No, he went away a few minutes ago.”

“And you are taking care of the office in his absence?” Mr. Schirr smiled. Even so, to Penny’s sensitive ears, the words had an insolent ring.

“I’m merely waiting for him to return,” she answered briefly. “I came to find out what to do about the car.”

“Oh, yes, I heard that all of your tires were stolen last night.” Mr. Schirr’s lips twitched. “Too bad.”

“I may get them back again. Dad says—” Penny checked herself, remembering that the information given her by her father was to be kept secret.

“Yes?” encouraged the assistant editor.

“Perhaps police will catch the thieves,” she completed.

“I shouldn’t count on it if I were you, Miss Parker. Black Markets have flourished in this city for months. Nothing’s been done to stop it.”

“Just what do you mean by a Black Market, Mr. Schirr?”

“Illegal trading in various scarce commodities. Tires either stolen or hijacked, are sold by the crooks to so-called honest dealers who serve the public. It’s now a big-time business.”

“What does Dad think about it?”

“Well, now, I really couldn’t tell you. Your father doesn’t discuss his editorial policy with me. If he did, I’d warn him to lay off all those tire-theft stories.”

Penny gazed quickly at the assistant editor, wondering how much he knew of her father’s plan.

“Dad usually prints all the news,” she said. “Why should he soft-pedal the tire stories?”

“For his health’s sake.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Schirr.”

The assistant editor had closed the door behind him. Warming to his subject, he replied: “The men who have muscled into the tire theft racket are ugly lads without scruples. If your father stupidly insists upon trying to smash the outfit, he may not wake up some morning.”

The suggestion that her father might ruthlessly be done away with shocked Penny. And a canny corner of her mind demanded to know how Mr. Schirr could be so well informed. She was quite certain her father had not taken him into his confidence.

“Dad is no coward,” she said proudly.

“Oh, no one ever questioned his bravery, Miss Parker. Your father is courageous to the point of rashness. But if he prints an exposé story about the tire theft gang, it’s apt to prove the most foolish act of his life.”

“How do you know he intends to do such a thing?”

The question, sharply put, surprised Mr. Schirr.

“Oh, I don’t,” he denied hastily. “I merely heard the rumor around the office.”

Penny made no reply. As the silence became noticeable, the assistant editor murmured that he would return to see Mr. Parker later and left the office.

Penny glared at the man’s retreating back. Even more intensely than before, she disliked Harley Schirr.

“The old sneak cat!” she thought. “I’ll bet a cent he’s been listening at the door or prying in Dad’s papers! I’m sure no rumors have been circulating around the office.”

The telephone rang. Automatically Penny took down the receiver.

“Mr. Parker?” inquired a masculine voice.

“He’s not here now. This is his daughter speaking. May I take a message?”

“No message,” said the purring voice. “Mr. Parker may hear from me later.”

“Who is this, please?” asked Penny quickly.

There was no answer, only the click of a receiver being hung on its hook.

The incident, although trifling, annoyed Penny. Getting up from the desk, she walked to the window. Mr. Schirr’s intimation had alarmed her, and now the telephone call added to her uneasiness.

“Probably the man who telephoned is well known to Dad,” she tried to assure herself. “I’m just imagining that his voice sounded sinister.”

Feeling the need of an occupation, Penny wandered out into the editorial room. She chatted with the society editor and for a time watched the world news reports coming in on the noisy teletype machines.

“Need a job?” inquired Editor DeWitt at the slot of the circular copy desk. “How about writing a few headlines for me?”

“No, thanks,” Penny declined. “I’m just waiting for Dad. He should be back any minute now.”

It was eleven-forty by the office clock. Never had time seemed to pass so slowly. As Penny debated whether or not to wait any longer, there was a sudden stir in the room. Glancing toward the outside door, she saw that Jerry Livingston, suitcase in hand, had entered.

Immediately reporters and editors left their desks to shake his hand.

“Jerry, you’re the best reporter this paper ever had,” Mr. DeWitt told him warmly. “We surely hate to see you go.”

“Oh, I’ll be back,” the reporter answered. “You can bet on that!”

Penny crossed the room to say goodbye. Jerry surprisingly tucked her arm through his.

“Come along and see me off on the train,” he invited, pulling her along. “Not doing anything special, are you?”

“Just waiting for Dad.”

“Then come on,” Jerry grinned. “I’ve got a lot to say to you.”

However, once in the taxi, speeding toward the railroad station, the reporter scarcely spoke. He reached out and captured her hand.

“I’m going to miss you, little twirp,” he sighed. “No telling when I’ll get back to the Star. Maybe—”

“Now don’t try to work on my sympathies,” laughed Penny, though a lump came in her throat. “Oh, Jerry—”

“At your command. Just break down and confess how desolate you’ll be without me.”

The railroad station was close by and Penny had only a moment to talk.

“Riverview will be a blank without you,” she admitted. “But it’s that tire-theft story I want to ask you about. Did you ever tell anyone that Dad is planning to expose the gang?”

“Of course not!”

“I knew you wouldn’t give out any information,” Penny said in relief. “But somehow Harley Schirr has learned about it.”

“Schirr! That egg? How could he have found out?”

“I’d like to know myself. He hinted that something dreadful might happen to Dad if the story is printed.”

Jerry patted Penny’s hand. “Don’t give it a thought, kid,” he said. “Schirr does a lot of wild talking. Probably whatever he said to you was pure bluff. He doesn’t know a thing.”

The arrival of the cab at the station put an end to the conversation. Jerry paid the driver and hustled Penny inside. He barely had time to purchase a ticket before the train was called.

“Well, goodbye,” Jerry said, squeezing her hand.

“Have a good time in Canada,” Penny replied. “And bring me a nice bear rug!”

“Sure, I’ll catch him with my bare hands,” Jerry rejoined, making a feeble attempt at a joke.

The train began to move. The reporter swung himself aboard the last Pullman. As he waved from the steps, Penny realized that she had forgotten to ask for his Canadian address.

Soon the train was only a blur down the frosty tracks. Penny climbed a steep ramp to the street. She felt lonesome, and for some reason, discouraged.

“First I lose my car wheels, and now it’s Jerry,” she reflected sadly. “What a week!”

Penny scarcely knew whether to go home or to the Star office. As she debated the matter, her ears were assaulted by the shrill scream of a siren.

“A fire,” thought Penny.

An ambulance rushed past. It raced to the end of the short street and pulled up.

“Probably an accident,” amended Penny.

Curious to learn what had happened, she began to run. At the end of the street a large crowd had gathered. A car with a smashed fender and damaged front grillwork, had piled against a street lamp.

“What happened?” Penny asked a man who stood beside her.

“Two cars in a smash-up,” he answered. “Didn’t see the accident myself.”

“But what became of the other automobile?” asked Penny.

She pushed through the gathering crowd to the curb. Broken glass was scattered over the pavement. Ambulance men were searching the wreckage of the car which had struck the lamp post. The other automobile, apparently, had driven away.

Suddenly, Penny’s gaze riveted on the rear license plate of the smashed car. In horror she read the number—P-619-10.

“Dad’s car!” she whispered. “He’s been hurt!”