“Then, I found the story about the charity play. That was another clew. It was stuffed behind some rolls of paper in the pressroom.”
“Was it?” Dummy looked innocent. “I never did find it, though I hunted. You thought I was a spy, did you?” His eyes were glittering as they had the day he and Mack had been arguing over that lost story. “Well, now, I’ll tell my story, but as long as you did your talking before the staff, I want to tell my story to them all, too. I’ll go tell Mr. Nixon, now.”
Mr. Nixon was sitting at his desk. Joan hated to meet him for he was really cross, since he was thoroughly convinced that Tim had made the mistake in the fire story.
Tim’s desk was vacant—the green swinging light above it, with the cord knotted to make it the right length, looked mournful and lonely, somehow. The desk was suspiciously clean and bare.
Joan, having gone to trail one mystery, was completely sidetracked by Dummy’s proving such a stumblingblock to her theory. She still clutched Tim’s story in her hand. She’d let Dummy tell his story, and then as soon as he was through she’d tell her theory just the same. After all, it looked more suspicious than ever, because Dummy had apparently only played deaf and dumb in order to work his misdeeds.
“Look here, Mr. Nixon.” Dummy went right up to the editor’s desk.
Mr. Nixon gave one look and then yelled, “Holy Moses! The Dummy can talk.” Then he looked embarrassed a bit, as though trying to remember what he had ever said in Dummy’s presence that he shouldn’t have. When he got over that feeling, he demanded, “Well, what’s the big idea? Are you a deaf-mute or aren’t you?”
“I pretended to be one, and I’ll tell you why, if you’ll only give me a chance. It seems that this young woman has spread a malicious report concerning me—”
“Cut it short,” ordered the editor. He was used to saying that to reporters. It would have been natural to have him add, “Hold it down to five hundred words.”