“He’s just as mysterious to me as he is to you,” replied the field chief. “Why don’t you ask him what it’s all about? I’ve had a radio from the general manager to extend him every courtesy and not to ask questions, but I guess that doesn’t cover you.”
“Asking questions is one of the things I do best,” grinned Tim as he left the office.
“Mr. Seven” was superintending the unloading of his luggage from the plane. Three large traveling bags were pulled out of the baggage compartment and Tim whistled as he thought of the excess fees which must have been paid for the transport of the heavy bags by air.
When “Mr. Seven” had made sure that his baggage was in proper order, Tim stepped up.
“I’m Tim Murphy of the Atkinson News,” he said. “Your face seems vaguely familiar but I can’t place your name. Since you are stopping here, I’d like very much to have a story.”
“Sorry, Murphy, but there’s nothing I can tell you. I prefer not to talk to reporters.”
Tim was undaunted. “Do you plan on staying long in Atkinson?”
“That’s another question I decline to answer.” The muscles around the stranger’s jaw were tightening and Tim sensed stormy weather ahead. Normally he would have let the whole matter drop but there was something so definitely perplexing in the other man’s attitude that he persisted in his questioning.
“You must have some special mission here,” said Tim.
“I told you before that I wouldn’t talk. You can fire away with questions all the rest of the afternoon and you’ll get the same result—zero. Now if you’ll be good enough to suggest your best hotel, I’ll be on my way up town.”