Beery leaned across the desk. “Fenner killed Bellmann,” he said. “That’s a swell break for the administration. It’d be even, a better break if all the dirt on Bellmann that the Coast Guardian published was proven to be fake — wouldn’t it?”
Larson turned from the window. He took a big handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose violently, nodded.
Beery took the long envelope out of his pocket and put it on the desk and shoved it slowly across to Larson.
“Here are the originals of the photographs and a couple of letters. You can burn ’em up and then challenge the Coast Guardian people to produce — or you can have ’em doctored so they’ll look like phoneys.”
Larson looked down at the envelope. He asked: “Who are the Coast Guardian people?”
Kells smiled, said: “Me — I’m them.”
Larson slit the envelope, glanced at its contents. Then he put the envelope in the top drawer of his desk and stood up; Kells and Beery stood up, too. Larson reached across the desk and shook hands with them. They went out of the office, downstairs.
Kells said: “It looks like MacAlmon hasn’t squawked — maybe he got away with the junk after all.”
They passed the Reporters’ Room and Beery said: “Wait a minute — maybe I can find out.” He went in and telephoned and came out, shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
Their cab was across the street. Kells looked up First Street to where the second cab had been parked on the other side of Hill Street. It had gone. He stood there a moment looking up First, then he said, “Come on,” and crossed the street, asked the driver: “What happened to the other cab?”