“Yeh. He’s expecting a report from you.”
“Hold her right here,” said Hagen nervously, “while I speak to the chief. I don’t — uh — know what the charge will be.”
Lucy shrugged and sat down on the wooden bench in front of the desk. It was evident that the desk sergeant had never seen her before, and she was determined to play her role until she was called into the chief’s office.
She studied the fat man out of the corner of her eye. She felt sure he was a reporter, but she couldn’t recall his name. He had to be the Herald reporter who had followed Shayne’s career for years. He didn’t like the detective because he had so often been scooped on Shayne’s exploits by the redhead’s close friend, Timothy Rourke, of the rival Daily News. Lucy decided she might as well play her role to the hilt.
“You, bud, got a reefer on you?” she asked in a harsh voice.
The reporter laughed immoderately, stood up, and held out an open pack of cigarettes. “Will a plain old Camel suit you, Miss Hamilton?”
Lucy said dejectedly, “I guess it’ll have to, if that’s the best you’ve got.” She took one, put it between her lips, and when he bent forward to light it, she looked up into his face and said pensively, “Can you get hold of Michael?”
He put the match to the cigarette, and, as she drew on it, he said, “Afraid not. The way I hear it, Gentry would like to do that very thing right this minute. You want to make a statement about the murder of Ralph Carrol?”
“I can’t, but Michael might give you a scoop if you could find him and tell him I’m here.”
Hagen came up to them looking subdued and harassed.