“Listen, Havercamp,” said Purdick; and he briefed the real facts in the scandal case for the managing editor in true newsman fashion.
“Oho!” said Havercamp; “so that’s it, is it?—tolled in with a smooth lie and then drugged. What have you done about it?”
Again, and in the same crisp speech, Purdick told of their late call upon Mr. Patrick Clanahan.
“Of course, you knew that wouldn’t get you anywhere,” said Havercamp. “You have to pull a gun on Pat when you want to hold him up. Wait a minute.”
He was gone possibly ten minutes instead of one, but when he came back his eyes were snapping.
“Just been having a little heart-to-heart talk with Mr. Bolinger, of the Chronicle,” he explained. “The Chronicle will back us if we want to make it a fight to a finish. Let’s go.”
Again Dick followed blindly, though this time it was Havercamp who was leading the way. Still, he wasn’t very greatly surprised to find that the way led back to the garishly furnished room over “Pat’s Place.” At the stair-head landing Havercamp didn’t knock; he opened the door and walked in. As when Dick and Purdick had presented themselves, the ward boss had his feet on the desk, and he was just lighting another of the midnight-black cigars.
Havercamp was even more brittle than Purdick had been.
“You know who I am, Mr. Clanahan,” he began, “and what we’ve come for. I’m only going to add one thing to what my friend Purdick here has already said to you. I have Mr. Bolinger’s authority for saying that the Chronicle will print all the facts in Donovan’s case if you don’t come across and help us get the man or men higher up.”
Dickie Maxwell, having had less than no experience in such matters, expected another explosion. But it did not come. Instead, the ward boss merely chuckled good-naturedly and tendered Havercamp one of the black cigars—which Havercamp didn’t take.