William McGivern - Very Cold for May

Jake took the phone from Noble’s hand. “This is Jake Harrison, Mr. Riordan. I was responsible for that story.”

Riordan’s voice was harsh. “Well, damn it, were you out of your head, or just drunk?”

“Let’s relax a little,” Jake said. “I met Prior this morning at May Laval’s and took a chance on getting him into a cooperative mood with a show of frankness. I told him I was speaking off the record, which, as you probably know, is a convention that people in this business respect. Prior doesn’t, obviously.”

“Well, what are we going to do? That story makes me look like a crook who’s hired a lot of fast-talking press agents because he’s scared of the truth coming out.”

“Well take care of that. This afternoon we’ll have a press conference. How’s three o’clock for you?”

“The time is all right, but what will I say?”

“Leave that to me. I’ll set this up at three in your suite, and well be over around two for a rehearsal. You’ve heard about May Laval, I suppose?”

“Yes, I read the papers. I — damn shame, I suppose. I spent last night in Gary and got the news when I got back to town. Did you see Avery Meed?”

“Yes, he just left.”

“I see.” Riordan sounded relieved. “I’m waiting for him, but he should be along pretty soon, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Jake said, and dropped the receiver back in place.

Noble was at the bar making himself a drink. He brought it to the desk and sat down nervously. “A press conference this afternoon is rushing things a little,” he said. “The boys from the papers can make him look pretty bad.”

Jake shrugged. “We’ve got no choice. The longer we wait after this blast of Prior’s the weaker our case gets. You’d better have your secretary call the papers and the wire services and tell them about the conference. I’ll get Niccolo to work on Riordan’s handout.”

“Let’s talk about that a minute,” Noble said, rubbing his forehead gloomily. “What the hell can he say?”

“I think we’d better play it safe. We’ll hammer away at the point that so far the government has made no specific accusations, but is high-handedly damning Riordan in the press. We’ll make Riordan the baffled, injured victim of fascist bureaucracy. I know it’s not a brilliant pitch, but it’s worked before.” Jake lit a cigarette and tossed the match away irritably. “I’m not in a genius mood. All my ideas run toward putting a midget on Riordan’s lap. Also, I hope to hell he can prove he spent the night in Gary. That will at least eliminate him as a candidate for the electric chair.”

“I see what you mean,” Noble said, and stared at his drink with a solemn expression.

Jake tried unsuccessfully to find Niccolo; but Dean had apparently gone out for a mid-morning snack. He returned to his office, rolled a clean sheet of paper into his typewriter and knocked out the speech for Riordan in half an hour. He had coffee and a sandwich at his desk, and rewrote the speech once more, trying to strike a tone that would sound unrehearsed and extemporaneous when Riordan reeled it off for the press.

Lieutenant Martin called him at one o’clock.

“Anything new?” Jake said.

“Nothing interesting,” Martin said. He sounded dour. “We’ve checked the obvious things. May had two servants, a maid and cleaning woman, but neither of them slept there. The cleaning woman came in at six in the morning, because May frequently had breakfast parties around ten or eleven.”

“They call it brunch,” Jake said.

“Yeah, they would. Anyway, the maid left at two this morning. The party was over then, but one guy was hanging around. Guy named Rengale. I talked with him, and he says he left about two fifteen. Do you know him?”

“Yes,” Jake said.

“Damn idiot,” Martin said. “Talked my arm off about soap operas. He says they’re the tone poems of the people, whatever the hell that means. Anyway, he’s clear. He was at a bar in the loop from a quarter of three to six thirty.”

“You didn’t find the diary, I presume.”

“No. But I want to talk to your boy, Riordan.”

“I’m afraid that’s a blind alley. He spent the night in Gary.”

“Yeah? What was he doing in Gary?”

“Damn it, how should I know? He owns steel mills in Gary. Maybe he went out to puddle some steel, or whatever it is you do with steel. When are you going to see him?”

“I thought you’d like to suggest a time.”

“That’s decent of you, my friend. Could you make it around four thirty? We’re having a press conference at three, and it would louse up our pitch if you arrived to arrest him about that time.”

“I’m not going to arrest him. Four thirty will be fine.”

“Thanks. Let me know if I can ever fix a parking ticket for you.”

“I fix my own,” Martin said. He paused, then said in a determined but embarrassed voice, “There is a little thing, Jake. My kid is having a birthday party this afternoon, and the wife thought it would be nice if he got his picture in the paper. Along with all the other kids, of course,” he added hastily. “I promised her I’d talk to somebody. You know how women are, Jake, they go nuts every time their kids get a new tooth or learn a new word.”

“Why, of course,” Jake said. “But you fathers are different. You don’t pay any attention to your children, unless they do something impressive, such as throwing a handful of strained spinach against the wall.”

“Oh, cut it out. Do you think it can be arranged?”

“Sure,” Jake said. “And thanks again for holding off on Riordan.”

“Okay,” Martin said.

Jake called the city desk of the Tribune. He asked Mike Hanlon, an old friend, if they had a photographer to spare for a kid’s birthday party. Mike said sure, that everybody liked pictures of kids. And dogs, he added.

Jake put Riordan’s speech in his pocket and started to look for Noble. He stopped at the open door of Sheila’s office. She had her feet on her desk and was studying a huge cardboard sheet propped against the wall. The cardboard was covered with clips from various papers, and the inscriptions above them told anyone who cared that they represented editorial space that had used items about that prince of crackers, Toastee Cracker.

Jake walked in and sat on the edge of her desk.

“Admiring the kill?” he said, and patted her slim ankles.

Sheila put her feet on the floor. “You lost your extraterritorial rights, remember?”

Jake snapped his fingers. “I keep forgetting. Don’t you think there’s something unnatural about our working in such proximity?”

“I don’t feel unnatural,” Sheila said. “Rut I find your absent-minded passes a little disturbing. What do you think of that?” she said, nodding toward the Toastee Cracker display. “I got cracker recipes in two hundred cooking columns and had it plugged on the air about five hundred times on hints-for-the-home program. Not bad, eh?”

“No, in fact it’s damn good. Gary see this?”

“Yes, about fifteen minutes ago, but he’s too upset to care. He gave it a startled look and said, ‘Grand! Grand!’ before rushing off. What’s on his mind?”

“The Riordan press conference,” Jake said.

“You wrote Riordan’s speech, I suppose. Did you make him sound like Nathan Hale?”

“Stop being disdainful. I can’t stand any of your idealistic contempt right now. How about coming over to Riordan’s with us?”

Sheila glanced at her watch and frowned. “I’ve got to get six releases into the mails by four. You can’t begin to loathe crackers until you’ve considered all the horrible things you can do with them. I’ve stuffed crackers into everything but the food editors’ mouths.”