“This one wasn’t cracked. The combination was worked,” suggested the policeman.
“Which might make it an inside job and might not,” said Tom. “The listening-in devices these boys have for telling when the tumblers of the lock fall are nothing short of wonderful.
“Let’s see what else we can find.” He began looking around the room.
“Some candle drippings on this ash tray,” said Jimmie.
“That’s right.” Tom pounced upon the tray. “Got tired of his matches and chanced lighting a stub of a candle. They often do. He used this tray as a candle-stick. Here’s where he stuck it.
“Cheap trinket,” he added. “I’ll take it along. Might find a finger print.”
“You’ll not find any,” said the officer. “Finger print man was here an hour ago. Sprinkled powdered white lead everywhere. Never a print did he find.”
“Guess that’s about all,” said Tom.
After leaving Tom, Jimmie returned to his post in the editorial rooms, to his duties and to the jigsaw puzzle work of fitting together in his mind the events of the day. There was not a spot in that great institution that he did not know or that did not fascinate him. He loved the smell of printer’s ink and fresh paper. The click of many typewriters and the roar of presses stirred his blood. He never tired of watching that fragile, apparently endless ribbon of clean, white paper glide through the presses to come out printed and folded in complete newspapers.
Three spots he liked best of all, the editorial room, the photographic department, and the art room. In these men born to create were at work. The click-click of a typewriter produced a story that would be read by eager millions. The dark-room brought out pictures almost as though by magic. In the art room men created pictures that made men laugh and forget their troubles. That was a little world all its own!