The telephone lifted him out of bed like a jumping-jack coming out of its box.
"Who is it? Oh, I'm sorry, chief, I didn't know it was you. What do you want? Working for you, hasn't a man got any rights at all?—Huh?—I'm sorry. Huh!—Thirty-eight people gone, just like they had walked off the face of the earth? And more reports coming in all the time? All right, all right; I'm on my way to Valley Park right now."
Outside the police station, the street was jammed by a silent crowd, a tense, straining, shifting mass of people. Scoop fought his way through them.
Inside, the station was alive with reporters, A.P. men, specials, U.P. men, a leg man from every sheet in the city. They were all asking questions. A brawny man, with his uniform coat flung open, was trying to answer them. The phone kept interrupting him. Every time it rang, the room dived into silence.
"Madam, I'm sorry. Yes—yes—We'll send a detail right away. You look around the neighborhood yourself. Perhaps she has just gone to the drug store. Yes.... I'm sorry, but I don't know what to tell you. We'll do the best we can."
"Another one?" a reporter queried as the phone went back on the hook. The chief of police nodded.
The strained silence was broken by the harsh breathing of frightened men.
"Lord!" a reporter whispered. "That's seventy-three now. And nobody knows how many may have vanished without being reported!"
The phone rang again. The chief of police grabbed it.