"Got his story? Of course he got it. And in another four hours
that safe-cracker would have drilled right into our vitals. I
tell you we can't imperil our institution this way. We can't let
that stuff get out. We can't do it!"
"Nobody's going to break your nice new bank, Obed! You run down
here in a taxi and we'll try to straighten things out."
"But what'll I do with Trotter? How're we ever going to hold him
in?"
"Where's your safe-cracker man?"
"We've got him right here! Burns is sending over an A. B. P. A.
man to take care of him."
"D'you mean he's hurt?"
"No, no! We've identified him as Missouri Horton of the Scott
Gang--he got a Sing Sing life sentence for yegg work in Yonkers.
But Burns tells me he had enough money buried away to buy Tammany
influence and get paroled. Can't you see what that means?"
"Which way? To your office or to mine?"
"To us! They've got him now, for life! They can get him back to
Sing Sing and keep the whole cursed thing under cover!"
There was a moment's silence before the cogitating Pyott spoke
again. "And you say you've got Trotter right there with you?"
"Yes, but he's acting like a madman, in the Vice-President's
private room."
Again there was a moment's silence. "Then give him ink and
paper--give him lots of it. Tell him I've said for him to write
the story THERE. Tell him to sling himself, that I want every
detail, every fact, and ten solid columns of it!"
"What are you driving at?"
"I'm driving at this: keep him busy, man! Don't you see? Keep him
writing there until the thing's worked out of his system. Then
I'll tame him down, later. Meanwhile, you'd better clean house up
there so you can officially contradict the whole story if the
yellows happen to get after you."
"But nothing can get out, I tell you, unless you PUT it out!"
"Then what are you worrying about?"
"Young Trotter says he's got to send his stuff in. He's not
satisfied with the mere idea of writing it."
"Then give him one of your men, two of your men, for carriers.
Tell him to keep sending his copy down in relays, as he writes
it. But don't let him get away."
"Oh, I'll hold him here if I have to nail him to the floor. I
tell you, a thing like this would shake public confidence. It'd
be worse than a fireproof hotel going up in flames. It would mean
an alarming and immediate depreciation in our credit, a
deplorable----"
"Of course it would. Come down as soon as you can and tell me all
that. I'll have more time then."
Pyott hung up the receiver. He poised for one brief and immobile
moment, deep in thought, before he swung about to the three
exigent figures making signs for his attention. Then the
thin-featured, many-wrinkled, weary-eyed face relaxed in an
almost honest and unequivocal smile.