“Are you Jones?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Richman is waiting for you. Pardon my haste. Let yourself in. You have a key.”
My bag was very heavy, being full of Richman’s silver and a few thousand dollars’ worth of jewellery, but I made good time through the snow.
I remembered Richman saying the Police Station was two blocks south—which, of course, explains why I went north.
MOLTEN METAL
By Hornell Hart
The president of the Canfield Iron Works sat at his desk, poring over departmental reports. The hush of Saturday afternoon had settled over the deserted works. Instead of the rumble of trucks, the tattoo of steam hammers, and the shrill of signal whistles, a fly droned at the window screen and birds twittered from the eaves.
It was with a startled feeling that the president looked up and saw, standing at the end of his desk, a tall, dully dressed working girl. Her eyes were circled with shadow, and her thin lips were set with the expression of one who forces back tears.
“I came to get five hundred dollars,” said the girl, in a tense voice. He looked up at her in dumb astonishment, and she hurried on. “We just got to have it, and you owe it to us. Pa, he kept telling the boss that the big ladle for the melted iron was cracked and it would spill some day, and the boss just laughed. Well, one day, about three months ago, he came up here to the office to tell you about it, and the fella out there told him to go on out and mind his business.