"I have to complain to my editor about the size of my headlines," he said. "It's a union rule. Do you mind waiting a little while?"
"Of course not," she said with that sublime and demoralising pliability. "Waiting is an old Russian pastime."
Simon went up to the editorial floor, and this time he swept through the interceptor command without interference, powered by the certainty of his route and destination.
The city editor saw him, and took his feet off the desk and crammed a discolored and shapeless panama on to the small end of his pear-shaped head.
"I'll have to go with you myself," he explained. "Not that I think you'd sell out to the UP, but it's the only way I could fix it. Let me do the talking, and you can take over when we get your man."
"What's he in for?"
"Passing a rubber check at his hotel. I hope you have some idea what strings I had to pull to arrange this for you."
Simon handed him the note that had been delivered to the Alamo House. The editor read it while they waited for the elevator.
"Smuggled out, eh?… Well, it might come to something."
"Is there a back alley way out of the building?"