“Let’s see what you got,” said Burke, glancing at the notes the other reporter held.
“Not a lot,” was the reply. “Zull is a cagey bird. I’ve run into him before. We’ll have to slide down to headquarters on this case.
“Devlin will know more after he talks with Crowell and Zull. There he goes now.”
Burke looked up just in time to see a short, broad-shouldered man turn into the entrance that led upstairs to the room where Harkness had been murdered.
“He’ll spend half an hour with Zull,” commented the reporter, while Burke was checking the notes. “Maybe more. Maybe we’d better stick here and pump Devlin when he comes out.”
“I’m going to turn in what I’ve got,” replied Burke.
He left the other reporter and walked to Seventh Avenue. There, he found a public phone booth and called a number.
IT was not the number of the New York Classic. It was an unlisted special number that Burke called on important occasions. A quiet voice answered him.
“Burke calling,” said Clyde. “Reporting on Harkness murder.”
“Go ahead.”