“I don’t know about that,” the janitor responded gloomily. “This morning when Schirr was comin’ up in the elevator he said to me: ‘Charley, there’s going to be a few changes made around here. I’m going to cut out all the old, useless timber.’ He looked at me kinda funny-like too. You know, I passed my sixty-eighth birthday last August.”
“Now don’t start worrying, Charley,” Penny cheered him. “We couldn’t run this building without you.”
Deeply troubled, she tramped down the hall to the newsroom. Reporters were in a fever of activity, pounding out their stories. Copy boys had a nervous, tense expression as they ran to and fro on their errands. Harley Schirr, however, was not in evidence.
“The Big Shot has sealed himself in your father’s office!” informed one of the copy desk men in a muted voice. “Guess you heard about DeWitt?”
Penny nodded.
“The Great Genius has taken over, and how! This place is operating on an efficiency-plus basis now. Why, he’s got me so cockeyed, I compose poetry.”
Penny crossed to her father’s office, tapping on the frosted glass door.
“Who is it?” demanded Schirr, his voice loud and unpleasant.
Penny spoke her name. In a moment the door opened, and the editor bowed and smiled. As if she were a guest of honor, he motioned her to a seat.
“We’re doing everything we can to trace your father,” he said. “So far, we’ve had no luck and the police admit they are baffled. I can’t express to you how sorry I am.”