The Case of the Missing Corpse

  “That ends your world-beating scoop, old man,” I said, dolefully to myself. “When you, and you only, hold every trump in the situation, too. Jesus God! What a break.”

  I called back the operator.

  “Cancel that call to New York.”

  There was nothing else to do. I’d given my word.

  I walked across to my typewriter and sat down in deep dejection. The typed pages looked up at me sorrowingly, full of reproach. With infinite reluctance, I slid the last sheet from the carriage and tore it along with all the rest into a hundred hopeless pieces.

  “No newspaper publicity without the express consent of the other!” What a fool thing ever to have signed. Then suddenly I looked up. “No newspaper publicity . . .” that damned pledge had specified. But Holy God in Heaven! We hadn’t said a word of all the other means that exist for relating a queer yarn. I could change all the names! I could shape it into a semblance of fiction! I could record those facts exactly as they had unfolded before me.

  I took a fresh piece of paper and slipped it into place. Swiftly my fingers touched the keyboard. And then softly and cheerily I began whistling my old pet tune.

  “I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it;

  I’ve rogued an’ I’ve ranged in my time.”

  Bon voyage, Peter Alcott. We’ll be even yet!

  THE END