Arthur Hailey - Evening News

That conversation had taken place two days before Chuck Insen, and then Crawford Sloane, had come to the news president with their personal problems about the National Evening News. Chippingham knew that their differences must be settled promptly within the News Division. For as long as possible he wanted no more visits to Margot, no more confrontations.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Crawf, just as I told Chuck,” Chippingham said, "right now you'll do the greatest harm to all of us in news if the two of you go public with your infighting. Over at Stonehenge, the News Division is out of favor. As for Chuck's idea of involving Margot Lloyd-Mason, she won't take his side or yours. What she'll probably do is more cost cutting on the grounds that if we have time for internal feuding we're not busy enough, and are therefore overstaffed.”

"I can fight that,” Sloane said.

”And I guarantee you'll be ignored.” Unusually, Chippingham was becoming angry. At times it was a news president's function to protect his reporting staff, including an anchorman, from the network's top management. But there were limits; for once he decided to be rough.”Something you may as well know is that our new boss doesn't have a lot of time for you. Because of that damn fool letter you and the others wrote to the Times, she described you as arrogant and overpaid.”

Sloane protested, "That letter was on target. I'm entitled to a free opinion and I expressed it.”

"Balls! You had no business putting your name there. In that I agree with Margot. For god's sake, Crawf, grow upl You can't take the kind of money you do from the network and continue being 'one of the boys,' shooting off at the mouth when you feel like it.”

There was no reason, Chippingham thought, why he should take all the flak from the network's new owners. Let other senior staffers, including Sloane and Insen, carry their share! The news president also had a private reason for irritation. Today was Thursday. Tonight he planned to leave for a long, love-filled weekend with Rita Abrams in Minnesota. Rita was already there, having arrived the night before. What he didn't want was to have this stupid brawl fomenting in his absence.

”I still come back to what we started with,” Sloane said.”There need to be changes in our news format.”

"There can be,” Chippingham told him.”I have some ideas myself. We'll work them out here.”

"How?”

"Starting next week I'll hold meetings with you and Chuck Insen—as many as it takes to get agreement. Even if I have to slam your heads together, we'll find an acceptable compromise.”

"We can try it,” Sloane said doubtfully, "but it's not totally satisfactory.”

Chippingham shrugged.”Tell me something that is.”

* * *

When the news president had gone, Sloane sat silently in his office brooding over their discussion. Then he remembered the speakerphone announcement about Larchmont. Curious to know if there was any more information, he left his office and headed for the newsroom.

Bert Fisher, the Larchmont stringer, was continuing to pursue a potential news story stemming from the police radio message about a "possible kidnap.” After telephoning WCBA-TV, Bert hurried out of his apartment, hoping that his battered twenty-year-old Volkswagen bug would start. Following an anxious minute of abortive whines and grunts, it did. He kept a scanner radio in the car and set it to the Larchmont police frequency. Then he headed for downtown—the Grand Union supermarket.

Partway there some more police radio exchanges caused him to change direction.

” Car 423 to headquarters. Proceeding to house of possible victims of reported incident. Address, 66 Park Avenue. Request a detective meet me there.”

“Headquarters to 423. Ten four."

A brief pause, then, ”I"Headquarters to car 426 Proceed urgently to 66 Park Avenue. Meet post officer, car 423. Investigate officer's report.

In local police usage, Bert realized, "proceed urgently” meant: with flashing lights and siren . Clearly, the action was heating up and Bert increased his own speed as much as the ancient Volkswagen would allow. Now, heading for Park Avenue, he felt excited about that address number-66. He wasn't sure, but if the house belonged to the person he thought it did, this was really a big story.

* * *

Officer Jensen, who had responded to the original call from the Grand Union supermarket and interviewed the old lady, Priscilla Rhea, now had a feeling he was involved in something serious. In his mind, he went over the situation so far.

During his questioning of others at the supermarket, several witnesses confirmed seeing a fellow shopper—identified by two of them as Mrs. Crawford Sloane—leave the store suddenly, apparently in distress. She was accompanied by her young son and two other men, one about thirty, the other elderly. The thirty-year-old appeared to have come to the store on his own. At first he had asked other shoppers whether they were Mrs. Sloane. Then, when he encountered the real Mrs. Sloane, the hasty exodus ensued.

From that point, the only person claiming to have seen any of those described was Miss Rhea. Her story about an attack, with the victims being carried away in a "little bus,” was increasingly believable. Contributing to the credibility was that Mrs. Sloane's Volvo station wagon—pointed out to Officer Jensen by someone who knew her—was still parked in the supermarket lot, with no sign of Mrs. Sloane or the others with her. There were also those splotches on the ground which possibly were blood. Jensen had asked one of the other officers now on the scene to protect them as evidence, for examination later.

Another onlooker, who lived near the Sloanes, had given Jensen the family's home address. This, coupled with the fact that there was nothing more for him to do at the supermarket, had prompted Jensen's radio message asking for a detective to meet him at 66 Park Avenue. In other circumstances, and because Larchmont police radio conversations were casual compared with those of larger forces, he would have included the Sloane name with the address. But knowing that Larchmont's most famous resident was involved, and being aware that outsiders might be listening, he withheld the name for the time being.

Jensen was on his way to Park Avenue now—a journey of only a few minutes.

He had just entered the driveway of number 66 when a second police car—unmarked, though with a portable flashing roof light and screaming siren—pulled in behind. Detective Ed York, an old-timer on the force whom Jensen knew well, stepped out. York and Jensen conferred briefly, then walked to the house together. The policemen identified themselves to Florence, the Sloanes' day maid, who bad come to the front door at the sound of the siren. She let them in, her face showing a mixture of surprise and alarm.

”There's a possibility, only a possibility,” Detective York informed her, "that something may have happened to Mrs. Sloane.” He began asking questions which Florence answered, her concern mounting as she did.

Yes, she had been in the house when Mrs. Sloane, Nicky, and Mr. Sloane's father left to go shopping. That was about eleven o'clock. Mr. Sloane had left for work just as Florence arrived, which was 9:30. No, she had not heard from anyone in the family since Mrs. Sloane left, though she hadn't expected to. In fact there had been no phone calls at all. No, there had been nothing unusual when Mrs. Sloane and the others drove away. Except . . . well . . .

Florence stopped, then asked anxiously, "What's this all about? What's happened to Mrs. Sloane?”

"Right now there isn't time to explain,” the detective said.”What did you mean by 'except . . . well?'