The clock over the Sub-editors’ table pointed to ten minutes to six. Jackson had left his own room and was sitting beside Price, the Night Editor, discussing the make-up of page one. Usually he found this an absorbing occupation, but concentration was difficult to-night and there was nothing in the news to stimulate interest.
Price ruefully scratched the side of his neck. “It doesn’t look as though the customers are going to get much for their penny to-morrow,” he said.
“If it’s as hot as this,” observed the Chief Sub, skilfully impaling a piece of copy on a metal spike without impaling himself, “the only use they’ll have for the Morning Call will be to keep the sun off their heads.”
“Still, passers-by might notice if the paper was blank,” said Price. “Bad publicity!” He stared disgustedly at the sheet in front of him. “Damn it, we haven’t even got a lead yet.”
A chair leg squeaked and the Foreign Sub joined them. “There’s something quite promising here,” he said. “Just in from Belgrade. Only a ‘flash’ so far, but it looks as though it might be worked up into a lead.”
Jackson took the piece of tape. Five Bulgarian communist leaders, according to the message, had fled across the frontier to avoid liquidation and been given sanctuary. The Assistant Editor pursed his lips. “It’s a possible,” he said, “if we can get something more on it. What do you think, Willie?”
Price shook his head sadly. “A foreign lead’s all wrong for a holiday weekend.”
The Foreign Sub, stood up for his story. “These are pretty high-powered chaps.” he pointed out.
“By Balkan standards, chum! They’ll mean a fat lot to bathing belles at Brighton!”
“Anyway,” said Jackson, “we might as well get Cardew to do something on it. I believe I’ve heard him talk about this fellow Kolarov.” He called out “Boy!”
A youth appeared with unusual celerity.
“Find Mr. Cardew, will you, and ask him to come and see me.” Jackson gave the piece of copy back to the Foreign Sub. “We’d better ask our Belgrade man to send something, too. It might make a second-edition lead, anyway.” He turned to Price. “Otherwise, what have we got?” The discussion was resumed.
In a few moments the youth re-appeared. “Mr. Cardew isn’t in his room, sir.”
Jackson frowned. “Doesn’t Mr. Jessop know where he is?”
“No, sir. He says he hasn’t seen him for a long time.”
“Well, go and look for him,” said Jackson testily. “He must be somewhere.”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy. He went cheerfully off on his errand, cuffing another boy as he left the room. Ten minutes later he returned, still without Cardew. He stood at Jackson’s elbow, reluctant to report failure.
“Well?”
“I can’t find him, sir.”
“Blast the fellow!” said Jackson under his breath. He looked at Price. “I wonder if Haines has got him.” He reached for the telephone and dialled the inspector’s office. “This is Mr. Jackson,” he said. “Have you by any chance got Mr. Cardew with you …? No, we can’t find him. I suppose he must be around somewhere, though …” His forehead puckered. “Oh, very well—I’m in the Subs’ room.” He hung up with an exclamation of annoyance. “Now I’ve started something—Haines is coming up. Cardew really ought to know better than to go off without leaving any message. I wonder where the devil he’s got to?”
Almost at once, Haines came into the room. He looked hot and far from benevolent. Jackson didn’t want a lot of fuss and joined him at the door.
“I told Mr. Cardew he wasn’t to go anywhere without letting me know,” said Haines.
“Is that so?” Jackson suddenly looked grave. It was news to him that Cardew was in special trouble. “Well, let’s ask the commissionaire. He may know something.” The Assistant Editor dialled the front box. “Mr. Jackson here. You haven’t seen Mr. Cardew go out, have you …? Oh, you have?” He glanced at the inspector.
“I’ll go right down,” said Haines, and rushed away. He found Sergeant Peach standing expectantly by the front box. “When did Mr. Cardew leave, Sarge?”
“About ’alf an hour ago, sir.”
Haines swore softly. “He didn’t happen to mention where he was going?”
“No, sir. ’E was in a great ’urry, and ’e was cursing like anything on account of ’is car.”
“What about his car?”
“’E couldn’t get it out of the garridge, not on ’ is own. Miss Camden’s car ain’t workin’ proper and it took two of us to shove it out of the way. Reg’lar job we ’ad, I can tell yer.”
“What’s his car like?”
“It’s black, sir, with a long body. One o’ them fast sporty models. I couldn’t tell you the make, I’m afraid.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Haines. He rushed up to the second floor office and broke the news to Ogilvie. For the next ten minutes, both telephones were busy as the machinery of the Yard was set in motion.
Finally Haines sat back. “The damned young fool!” he said with great intensity. “Where does he suppose he’s going to get to?”
“Scared stiff, if you ask me,” said Ogilvie. “I thought he had a pretty wild look about him when he was down here. It seems as though he did it after all.”
“He must know that he can’t get away with this.”
“I suppose he thought he had a good start. After all, if Jackson hadn’t happened to want him he might have got a plane and been out of the country before we’d even realised he was missing.”
“He’d have been picked up sooner or later,” said Haines grimly. “He must be out of his mind. This was the one thing he couldn’t afford to do.”