There's the _Morning Mars_, for
instance. It warmed up two or three trails, and got the man after the
police had let 'em get cold."
"I'll show you," said Kernan, rising, and expanding his chest. "I'll
show you what I think of newspapers in general, and your _Morning
Mars_ in particular."
Three feet from their table was the telephone booth. Kernan went
inside and sat at the instrument, leaving the door open. He found a
number in the book, took down the receiver and made his demand upon
Central. Woods sat still, looking at the sneering, cold, vigilant
face waiting close to the transmitter, and listened to the words that
came from the thin, truculent lips curved into a contemptuous smile.
"That the _Morning Mars_? . . . I want to speak to the managing
editor. . . Why, tell him it's some one who wants to talk to him
about the Norcross murder.
"You the editor? . . . All right. . . I am the man who killed old
Norcross . . . Wait! Hold the wire; I'm not the usual crank . . . Oh,
there isn't the slightest danger. I've just been discussing it with
a detective friend of mine. I killed the old man at 2:30 A. M. two
weeks ago to-morrow. . . . Have a drink with you? Now, hadn't you
better leave that kind of talk to your funny man? Can't you tell
whether a man's guying you or whether you're being offered the
biggest scoop your dull dishrag of a paper ever had? . . . Well,
that's so; it's a bobtail scoop--but you can hardly expect me to
'phone in my name and address .
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