“Talk about news,” he said. “Things never come singly in a newspaper office. First you bob in with the mysterious Mr. Seven, then we put on an air show and now we find the head of the air circus is wanted by Uncle Sam for peddling dope. What next?”
“Learn the identity of ‘Mr. Seven,’” grinned Tim.
“You can worry over that one,” snorted Ralph. “It’s almost midnight now. I’m going home and I expect I’ll have all kinds of nightmares.”
“If you suddenly discover the identity of ‘Mr. Seven’ I’ll be glad to answer the phone even if it is three in the morning,” said Tim.
“Just for that, I won’t phone you even if I do suddenly open some hidden recess in my brain and recall who he is.” Ralph threw the words over his shoulder as he left the editorial room.
Tim picked up the aviation magazine which contained the picture of the High Flyers and looked again at the printed likeness of Ace McDowell. The eyes were cruel, hard, merciless. Even on the inanimate page there was something disturbing about them. Next to McDowell was the picture of Tommy Larkin. He was about the age of Tim or Ralph, stocky and well-built.
Tim placed the magazine back in one of the drawers, snapped off the light, and left the office. As Ralph had observed, things never came singly, and Tim felt a weight of apprehension settling on his shoulders.
The next morning a board of strategy met in the office of the managing editor. Grouped around the table facing the heads of the News were the narcotics officer, Tim and Ralph.
“Of course we’ll help in every way possible,” the managing editor assured Prentiss. “You can rely upon Tim and Ralph to give you the utmost assistance and you’ll not find their courage wanting in the pinches.”
“That’s why I came to them,” smiled Prentiss. “I need two men on whom I can count.”