“It’s no use,” Penny said. “I doubt if anyone will answer.”
Salt pounded a few more times, and then was forced to admit that he was only wasting his energy. “I might take a shot of the house,” he said. “Gloomy old morgue, isn’t it?”
“That’s about all you can do under the circumstances.”
“A picture of a house,” Salt groaned. “DeWitt’ll go for it like a ton o’ brick. He’ll probably throw a typewriter at me!”
“There’s another place on the grounds that might be more interesting. It’s a sort of thatched roof cottage.”
Salt immediately brightened. “Let’s have a look-see,” he proposed. “Maybe we can round up a gardener or someone who’ll pose.”
Circling the house, Penny led the way down the graveled path. Salt took such long strides it was hard to keep up with him. He’d had a tough day, he told her. As if taking shots of society women at the Country Club hadn’t been bad enough, right on top of it he’d been sent to the airport to catch a couple of prominent state officials. And then, before he’d had a chance to get the pictures printed, DeWitt had ordered him to the mansion.
“It’s just one thing after another,” he muttered. “I wish someone would tell me why I don’t quit newspaper photography.”
“Because, no matter what you say, you like the excitement,” Penny supplied. “Remember those shots you took of the Governor that were printed in the rotogravure section?”
“Sure,” grinned Salt, his good humor returning. “I also remember the time I was sent to a furniture store to take some pictures for the advertising department, and without me knowing it, the store closed for the night. I telephoned DeWitt I was locked in, and what did the old crow do? ‘Just sit down and wait,’ he says. ‘I’ll get hold of a watchman, and we’ll have you right out of there.’”