“Has the photograph appeared in the newspapers?”
“I think not. From all accounts he must have looked pretty gruesome, Maynard; the newspapers wouldn’t want to publish a picture of a dead man sitting in a chair. It isn’t done.”
“Pretty good publicity if it were done,” retorted Maynard bluntly. “Have you told Detective Mitchell your theory?”
“Not yet.” Palmer hesitated. “Let the police work out their theories first. There’s another reason,” and he smiled. “Washington is spy-mad; and I don’t want to be classed among the men and women who write anonymously to the Department of Justice or telephone the Secret Service regarding the, to them, suspicious behavior of their neighbors. Hot air, most of it.”
“Better hot air than run the risk of letting a spy escape through not reporting him,” remarked Maynard. “If I were you, Palmer, I wouldn’t lose any time in seeing Mitchell, and suggest to him that the Secret Service take a hand in the game.”
“They may be working from that end already,” answered Palmer doubtfully. “However, if you think it best I’ll step over to the Treasury Department and see Chief Connor. Would you like to come along?”
“Very much.”
“Good.” Palmer swung about and gathered up the blue prints of all sizes which littered his desk. He was in the act of placing them in his drawer when a sharp rap followed instantly by the entrance of his office boy interrupted him.
“General West is awaitin’ in his car to speak to yo’,” announced the darkey. “The General’s in a pow’ful big hurry an’ he wants ter see the plan for the new buildin’ for the Ordnance.”
Palmer selected four blue prints. “I’ll be right back,” he told Maynard and hurried out into the hall.