Hanging up the receiver before the housekeeper could ask any more questions, she walked swiftly on to the Star building. The front door was locked, but Penny had her own key. Letting herself in through the darkened advertising room, she climbed the stairs to the news floor.
A few members of the Sunday staff were working at their desks, but otherwise the room was deserted. Typewriters, like hooded ghosts, stood in rigid ranks.
Pausing to chat for a moment with the Sunday editor, Penny asked if her father were in the building.
“He was in his office a few minutes ago,” the man replied. “I don’t know if he left or not.”
Going on through the long newsroom, Penny saw that her father’s office was dark. The door remained locked.
Disappointed, she started to turn back when she noticed a light burning in the photography room. At this hour she knew no one would be working there, unless Salt Sommers or one of the other photographers had decided to develop and print a few of his own pictures.
“Dad, are you there?” she called.
No one answered, but Penny heard a scurry of footsteps.
“Salt!” she called, thinking it must be one of the photographers.
Again there was no reply, but a gust of wind came suddenly down the corridor. The door of the photography room slammed shut.