The Early Ayn Rand

The eager citizens who snatched from each other the crisp, fresh sheets, with the black print still wet and smearing under their fingers, read, shivering, of how the charming young heiress, Miss Juliana X. Winford, had disappeared on her way home from a visit and of how her sports car had been examined by the police on a lonely road two miles out of town. The sports car had two bullet holes in its side and one in a rear tire; the windshield was broken, the upholstery ripped and torn. Everything indicated a grim, desperate struggle. The sports car had been discovered, the Dicksville Dawn proudly announced, by "our own reporter, Mr. L. H. McGee."

There was a big photograph of Miss Winford, where all one could distinguish were bare legs, a tennis racket, and an intoxicating smile. The thrilling front-page story that related all these events was entitled: "Society Beauty Victim of Unknown Monster" — by Laurence H. McGee. It started with: "A profound sorrow clutched our hearts at the news that our fair city's peace and respect for law, of which we had always been so proud, was suddenly disturbed by a most atrocious, terrifying, revolting crime..."

The old building of the Dicksville Dawn looked like an anthill that somebody had stepped on. The presses thundered; the typewriters cracked furiously like machine guns; a current of frenzied humanity streamed down the main stairs and another one rolled up. City Editor Jonathan Scraggs dashed around, sweat streaming down his red face, rubbing his hands with a grin of ecstatic satisfaction at the thought that the Dawn had received the great news two hours before its rival, the Dicksville Globe. Laury McGee sat on the Editor's desk, his legs crossed, calmly smoking a cigarette.

"Great stuff, that story of yours, Laury, my boy!" Mr. Scraggs repeated. "Never thought you had it in you!"

The telephones screamed continuously, calls from all over the town, anxious voices begging news and details.

Chief Police Inspector Rafferty himself dropped in to see the City Editor. He was short, square, and nervous. He had a big black mustache, like a shaving brush, and little restless, suspicious eyes always watching for someone to offend his dignity.

"Cats and rats!" he shouted. "What's all this? Now, I ask you, what the hell is all this?"

"It's quite an unexpected occurrence," agreed Jonathan Scraggs.

"Occurrence be blasted! That any scoundrel should have the nerve to pull that off in my town! Cats and rats! I'll be hashed into hamburger if I know who the lousy mongrel could be! It isn't Pug-Nose Thomson, 'cause he was seen stewed like a hog in some joint, last night!"

"The affair does seem rather mysterious and..."

"I've sent every man on the force to comb the town! I'll fire them all, each goddamn boob, if they don't pull the bum out by the gullet!"

That afternoon, Mr. Christopher A. Winford's gray automobile stopped before the Dawn building and the tall gentleman walked up to the city room, with a step that implied a long acquaintance with respectfully admiring eyes and news cameras. He was cool, poised, distinguished. He had gray eyes, and a mustache that matched his eyes, and a suit that matched his mustache.

"Yes, it's most annoying," he said slowly, his eyes half-closed as one used to conceal his superior thoughts. "I wish my daughter back, you understand."

There was a slight wonder in his voice, as though he was unable to see how his wish could be disobeyed.

"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Winford," Mr. Scraggs assured him. "You have all our sympathy. A father's heart in a misfortune like this must..."

"I came here personally to arrange for an announcement in your paper," Mr. Winford went on slowly, "that I will pay a reward to anyone who furnishes information leading to the discovery of my daughter's whereabouts. Name the sum yourself, whatever you find necessary. I will pay for everything."

He had the calm tone of a man who knows the surest means of attaining his desires and does not hesitate to use it.

"There's an extra for us!" Mr. Scraggs cried enthusiastically when Mr. Winford left. "Rush to your mill, Laury, old pal, and fix us a good one! 'Heartbroken father in Dawn's office'... and all that, you know!"

"You seem to be in an unusually happy humor, today," Mr. Scraggs chuckled, watching Laury's sparkling eyes and swift fingers dancing on the typewriter keys. "So am I, boy, so am I!"

When Laury went home, late that evening, there was under every streetlamp an enthusiastic newsboy yelling himself hoarse with:

"Extree-e! Big ree-word for missin' goil! Here's yer cha-ance!"

And the headlines announced:

DESPERATE FATHER OFFERS $5,000 REWARD

That, in Mr. Scraggs' eyes, had been the most sensational sum he could name...

Laury's heart missed a few beats when he walked up the steps to his apartment and turned the key in the door lock. Was everything all right?