“Humph,” said Caulborn, barely glancing at the type. He was, in truth, a little annoyed that Pop had gotten anything at all. When Caulborn had taken this job he had known very well that there were others in the office who had more seniority, more experience, and therefore a better claim.
“You call this a story?” said Caulborn. “You think we print anything you care to write? Go back to the copy desk.” And so saying he dropped the sheets into the wastebasket with an emphatic gesture of dismissal.
Pop was a little dazed. He backed out and stood on the sill for seconds before he closed the door. A hurrying reporter jostled him and was about to rush on when he saw Pop’s expression.
“Hey, you look like you need a drink.”
“I do,” said Pop.
The reporter glanced at Caulborn’s door. “So he’s making it tough for you, is he? The dirty rat. Never mind, Pop, when better newspapermen are built they’ll all look like you. Something will break sooner or later—”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Say, look now! Don’t quit under fire. You know what ails that guy? He’s scared, that’s all. Scared of most of us and you in particular. Why, hell’s bells, you belong in that chair. We’re losing money, hundreds a day, and when it gets to thousands the publisher himself will get wise—”
“I’m being laid off,” said Pop.
“You? For God’s sake!”
Pop wandered back to his desk. Two other reporters came over to commiserate with him and curse Caulborn, but Pop didn’t have anything to say. He just kept on pulling old odds and ends out of his desk, throwing many of them away but making a packet out of the rest.
“You’re not leaving today, are you?” said a third, coming up.
“What else can I do?” said Pop.
And he went on cleaning out his desk, looking very worn and old and quiet. He scarcely looked up when Caulborn passed him, on his way out to lunch.
It was about one o’clock and he was just tying a string around his belongings—a pitifully small package to show for all his years in this city room. The phone rang on the next desk and Pop, out of habit, reached across for it.
“Gimme rewrite,” barked an excited voice.
“I’ll take it,” said Pop suddenly.
“This’s Jenson. I’m up on the Drive. Ready?”
Pop raked some copy paper to him and picked up a pencil. He was a little excited by the legman’s tone. “Ready.”
“At twelve-forty-five today, Grant’s Tomb disappeared.”
“Huh?”
“Get it down. The traffic on the Drive was at its noon-hour peak and the benches around the structure were filled with people. When, without warning, a rumble sounded, the alarmed populace—”
“To hell with the words,” cried Pop. “Give me the story. How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. There are half a dozen police cars around here staring at the place Grant’s Tomb was. I was about a block away when I heard shrieks and I came tearing down to find that traffic was jammed up and that people were running away from the place while other people ran toward it. I asked a nursemaid about it and she’d seen it happen. She said there was a rumbling sound and then suddenly the tomb began to shrink in size and in less than ten seconds it had vanished.”
“Was anybody seen monkeying with it?” said Pop, feeling foolish instantly.
“A chauffeur said he saw a little guy in a swallowtail coat tear across the spot where the tomb had been.”
“How many dead?”
“Nobody knows if anybody is dead.”
“Well, find out!”
“How can I find out when everybody that was sitting on the steps and all completely disappeared?”
“What?”
“They’re gone.”
“Somebody is crazy,” said Pop. “No bodies?”
“No tomb.”
“I got this much,” said Pop. “You hoof it back there and get stories from the witnesses.” He hung up and whirled to shout down the line of desks, “Grant’s Tomb’s gone! Get Columbia on the phone. We got to have a statement from somebody that knows his stuff. You, Sweeney, grab an encyclopedia and see if anything like this ever happened before. Morton, grab a camera and get out there for some pictures. Dunstan! You go with Morton and find the relatives of the people that have vanished along with the tomb. Get going!”
Nobody asked any questions beyond a stammer of incredulity. Nobody thought of tearing out to find Caulborn. Sweeney, Morton, Dunstan and others went into a flurry of activity.
“Branner!” cried Pop into the interoffice phone. “Start setting up an extra. We’ll be on the street in half an hour. Second extra in an hour and a half with pictures.”
“Is this Pop?”
“Yeah, this is Pop. What are you waiting for?”
“Okay. Half an hour it is.”
“Louie, get some shots of Grant’s Tomb out of the files and rush them down to Composing.” Pop pulled his old typewriter toward his stomach and his fingers began to flash over the keys. Hunt and punch it was, but never had a story rolled so swiftly. In five minutes it was streaming down to Composing.
Pop got up and paced around his desk. He rumpled his graying hair and looked unseeingly out across the city room. He had pinch-hit as night editor so often that he did not question his authority to go ahead. And still nobody thought of Caulborn.
Shortly a damp proof was rushed up. The copy boy hesitated for a moment and then laid it on Pop’s desk. Pop looked it over. “Okay. Let it run.”
The boy loped away and Pop, reaching for a cigarette, again missed his case. Instead he hauled up a limp package and lighted a match. The phone rang somewhere.
“Take it, Pop,” said a reporter.
Pop took it.
“Who’s this?” said Pop.
“Freeman. Grab your pencil.”
“Got it,” said Pop, beginning to tingle at the tone of the legman.
“The Empire State Building disappeared about five minutes ago.”
“Right,” said Pop.
“I’m down at precinct— About three seconds ago a cop came staggering in with the news. I haven’t had a chance to look.”
“Get right down there and see,” said Pop. “Grant’s Tomb vanished just before you called.”
“Check.”
Pop put down the phone and dashed over to the window. But in vain he searched the skyline for any sign of the Empire State Building. “Gone,” he said. The human being in him was appalled. The newspaperman went into action.
“Goodart,” roared Pop, “get a camera down to the Empire State. It’s disappeared.”
“Check,” said Goodart, dashing away.
“Copy boy!” yelled Pop. And into the phone, even while he started the second story, he yelped, “Branner. Limit the first extra. Get set for a second. Story coming down. The Empire State Building has disappeared.”
“Okay,” said Branner.
“Get some pictures down to Branner on the Empire State,” shouted Pop. His fingers were blurring, so fast they raced over the keys.
“New York is going piece by piece,” said a reporter. “Oh boy, what a story!”
“Call the mayor, somebody!” said Pop. “Tell him about it and ask him what he means to do.”
“Check,” said a cub eagerly.
“No such incident in the encyclopedia,” reported Sweeney.
“Unprecedented,” said Pop. “Lawson and Frankie! You two get cameras and rush downtown to be on hand in case any other big buildings exit. Copy boy!”
And the second story was on its way to Composing. And still nobody remembered Caulborn.
Pop went back to the window, but the Empire State was just as invisible as ever.
“Columbia says mass hypnotism or hysteria,” said a girl.
“Get their statement,” said Pop.
“Got it.”
“Dress it up and shoot it down.”
“Check.”
Pop walked around his desk. Again he reached for his cigarette case and was again annoyed to find it gone. He lighted up, frowning over new angles, one eye hopefully on the phone.
“Find out how many people are usually in the Empire State,” said Pop.
“Check,” said a reporter, grabbing a phone.
“Don’t try to call the Empire State!” said Pop. “It isn’t there!”
The reporter looked silly and changed his call to the home of a director of the Empire State.
Certain that the story would keep breaking, Pop was not at all surprised when Frankie called.
“Pop! This’s Frankie. Pennsylvania Station’s gone!”
“Penn— Full of people?”
“And trains and everything!” cried Frankie. “There’s nothing there but a hole in the ground. I was lucky, about a block away and saw it happen! You said big so I figured Pennsylvania—”
“The story!”
“Well, there was a kind of rumble and then, all of a sudden, the station seemed to cave into itself and it was gone!”
“Statements!”
“A little guy in a swallowtail coat almost knocked me down running away. He was scared to death. Everybody was trying to get away. And right on the corner one of our boys was shouting our first extra. The whole building just disappeared, that’s all. People, trains, everything. You ought to see the hole in the ground—”
“Get statements and rush your pictures back here. Don’t be a damned photographer all your life.”
“Okay, Pop.”
“Pennsylvania Station,” yelped Pop. “Tim, get this for rewrite. About five minutes ago, Pennsylvania Station disappeared—people, trains, everything. There’s nothing but a hole in the ground. There was a rumble and then the thing vanished. Seemed to cave into itself but there is no debris. It’s gone. All gone.”
“Okay, Pop,” said Tim, his mill beginning to clatter.
“Copy boy!” shouted Pop, pointing at Tim. “Pictures of Pennsylvania Station!” He grabbed a phone. “Branner! Keep adding to that extra. We got pictures coming of Pennsylvania Station. It’s gone.”
“Penn— Oh boy, what a story!”
Pop hung up. “Angles, angles—” The phone rang.
“This is Lawson. I just heard that Grand Central disappeared. I’ll get down there for some pictures and call you back.”
“Pennsylvania Station just went,” said Pop.
“The hell,” said Lawson.
“On your way,” said Pop.
“Gone,” said Lawson.
Pop reached for another phone which was clamoring.
“This is Jenson again. I been checking all the angles. About a thousand people saw it disappear when—”
“What? What’s gone now?”
“Why, Grant’s Tomb—”
“Hell, kill it. The Empire State, Pennsylvania and Grand Central have gone since then. Get down here with your photographer.”
“I haven’t seen him. Did you send one?”
“Get down here. Do you think this is a vacation? Bring in your yarns. They’ll just make our fourth extra.”
“Okay, Pop.”
“Got a statement from the mayor. He’s yelling sabotage,” said the cub. “He says he’s phoning the governor to call out the militia. He says they can’t do this to his town.”
“Banner for extra number three,” barked Pop into the phone. “Mayor Objects. Calls Out Militia. Story coming down.” He jabbed a finger at the cub’s typewriter. “Roll it out and spread it thick. They’ll be half-panicked by now. Stab in a human-interest angle. Make ’em take it calm.”
“Check,” said the cub nervously.
Pop walked around his desk and again reached for his cigarette case, to again discover that it was missing. “Angles—two men with swallowtail coats—”
Pop whirled, “Eddy! Take this lead. Mystery man seen in two catastrophes. A small man with a swallowtail coat was present today at both the vanishing of the tomb and Pennsylvania Station. Was seen to run across place where tomb had been and collided with one of our reporters just after Pennsylvania disappeared. Got it?”
“Check.”
Pop went over to the window. The Empire State was still gone. A thought was taking definite form in his mind now. For some reason he kept harking back to Hannibal Pertwee. Railway stations, cigarette case, swallowtail coat—
Freeman came dashing up. “She’s sure gone.”
“What?”
“The Empire State. There’s nothing but a hole in the ground. There were umpteen thousand people inside and there’s no sign of them—”
“Okay! Do me a story about the state of the city—how calm they’re taking it. Smooth them down. Third extra on its way and you’ll make the lead in the fourth.”
“Right,” said Freeman. “But you oughta seen that cop—”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t buy the paper. Write it.”
“Okay, Pop.”
Pop turned back to his desk. He was so preoccupied that he did not see a dark cloud come thundering through the city room.
Caulborn, with a copy of the first extra in his hands, bore down upon what was obviously the center of the maelstrom.
“Did you do this?” he cried, shaking the extra under Pop’s nose.
“Sure. What about it?”
“Why didn’t you call me? You know where I eat lunch! How do you know this story is true? What do you mean spreading terror all over the town? How is it that we get a paper out so quick when there’s nobody else on the streets? If this is a farce, then we’ll be in Dutch plenty. Civil and criminal actions—”
“It takes guts to run a paper,” said Pop coldly.
“If that’s what it takes, you’ve got too many. Now we’ve got to check everything we’ve printed. If you’ve got another extra on the rollers, we’ll have to kill it and find out if—”
“The third extra is on the street,” said Pop.
Caulborn stared, growing angry. “And you took the authority without even trying to find me?”
“A story has got to go when it’s hot,” said Pop.
“All right! All right! And you ran this one so hot that you’re driving New York into a panic! Get out!”
“What?”
“I said get out!” towered Caulborn. “You’re through, finished, washed up. Today instead of tomorrow!” And, nursing his injured importance, Caulborn flung off to his office.
The city room was very quiet.
Pop stood for a little while and then, with a shrug, picked up the package on his desk.
“Well,” he sighed, “it was fun while it lasted.”
“You’re going to take him at his word?” said somebody. “Just because you were smart enough not to wait? He’s just sore because you did it so swell—”
“Maybe,” said Pop.
“You’re going to quit like this?” said Freeman.
“No. Not like this,” said Pop.
“Whatcha going to do?” said the cub.
Pop hefted his package. He looked grim.
Chapter Four
AT dusk Pop approached the fortress of Hannibal Pertwee. But this time he did not lean against the fence or spend time in reading signs. True, he could not miss:
BEWARE OF THE LIONS!
but, having seen none on his previous visit, he refused to be alarmed. In fact, he was so unswerving of purpose that nothing short of lightning itself could have stopped him and he had an antidote for that.
At a garage he had managed to separate himself from five dollars he could ill afford, an electrician from a pair of insulated gloves, and the heaviest pair of wire cutters he could carry.
Breaking and entering would be a very serious offense, but he was first going to give Hannibal a chance.
For several minutes he waited dutifully at the gate, hoping that the mysterious voice would again speak. But this time it did not and the house remained as dark as it was small.
“You asked for it,” muttered Pop.
&
nbsp; Very painstakingly he inspected the latch. Then he donned the rubber gloves and took the cutters and went to work. In a few minutes the gate was swinging open, leaving its latch behind.
Oh, if this hunch he had was wrong!
He marched through the miniature forest down the miniature path and ducked to mount the porch. But there his purpose was eased.
Hannibal opened the door and gazed sadly at him.
“It will be so much work to repair that gate,” said Hannibal.
“Well … uh … you see—”
“I was very busy. You are Mr. Frothingale from the Atlantic Science Survey, are you not?”
“I’m from the World-Journal,” said Pop.
“You’re sure you are not from the railroad company?”
“Ah,” said Pop.
“Well—I am very sorry but I can’t ask you in tonight. I am so busy.”
“I … er … came after my cigarette case,” said Pop.
“Cigarette case?”
“Yes. I lost it when I was here before. I would dislike having to part with it permanently.”
“Oh, that is very shocking. Did you lose it here?”
“I had it when I was here and didn’t have it after I left.”
“Mightn’t you have dropped it in the garden?”
“I had it while I was in the house. You don’t mind if I come in and look, do you?”
“Why … er—”
But Pop was already shouldering past Hannibal Pertwee and the little man could not but give way. However, Hannibal skipped to the fore and guided Pop into the minute living room.
“I was sitting here in this chair,” said Pop, looking under it.
Hannibal fidgeted. “Isn’t it lovely weather?”
“Swell,” said Pop. “You don’t mind if I look elsewhere?”
“Oh, yes! I mean no! I am very busy. Really, you will have to go.”
“But my cigarette case,” said Pop, edging toward the train room, “is very valuable to me.”
“Of course, of course. I appreciate your predicament. But if I had seen it and if I find it— Oh, dear, what am I saying?”
“Well,” said Pop, suddenly crafty, “I won’t trouble you further. I can see how upset you are.” And he extended his hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Pertwee.”
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