They had to wait nearly half an hour before Poison would see them. Then he walked into the small reception−room, a heavy scowl on his face and his hands thrust deeply in his trouser pockets.
Poison looked what he was: a millionaire newspaper owner. Hard as nails, a terrific worker, and greedy for dollars. He stared at Henry as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “What do you want?” he snapped. “What is this?”
Henry said respectfully, “This is Ellinger, who’s responsible for crime news. He’s got a little story that I thought would interest you.”
Poison didn’t even bother to look at Jay. He tapped Henry on his chest with a long bony forefinger. “Listen, I pay you to listen to interesting stories, and to print them. I’m far too busy to bother with things like that. Go back to the office, hear his story; if it’s any good, print it, if it isn’t, tell him to go to hell.”
“This story’s about Mendetta and the 22nd Club,” Henry said patiently. “In view of what you said to me this morning, I thought I’d ask you first.”
Poison’s eyes snapped. “I said leave the 22nd Club alone. Leave Mendetta alone. When I say a thing I mean what I say.”
Henry stepped back. “Very well, Mr. Poison,” he said.
Jay said, “Mendetta’s running a vice ring. He’s trading in women. Decent girls are being kidnapped from their homes. I’ve got proof that he is using the Club for this purpose. I want your permission to make an investigation.”
Poison stiffened. His thin hatchet face went white with anger. Without looking at Ellinger, he said to Henry: “I will not discuss this further. I’ve told you our policy. Leave Mendetta alone, and leave the Club alone. If any of your staff disobey our policy, get rid of them. Good night.” He turned on his heel and walked stiffly out of the room.
Henry looked at Jay. “You heard him,” he said.