The Second Confesion

Lon had been rank and file, or maybe only rank, when I first met him, but was now second in command at the Gazette's city desk. As far as I knew his elevation had gone to his head only in one little way: he kept a hairbrush in his desk, and every night when he was through, before making a dash for the refreshment counter he favoured, he brushed his hair good. Except for that there wasn't a thing wrong with him.

He shook hands with Wolfe and turned on me.

“You crook, you told me if I didn't stop-oh, here it is. Hello, Fritz. You're the only one here I can trust.” He lifted the highball from the tray, nodded at Wolfe, swallowed a third of it, and sat in the red leather chair.

“I brought the stationery,” he announced. “Three sheets. You can have it and welcome if you'll give me a first on how someone named Sperling wilfully and deliberately did one Louis Rony to death.” “That,” Wolfe said, “is precisely what I have to offer.” Lon's head jerked up. “Someone named Sperling?” he snapped.

“No. I shouldn't have said ‘precisely’. The name will have to wait. But the rest of it, yes.” “Damn it, it's midnight! You can't expect-” “Not tonight. Nor tomorrow. But if and when I have it, you'll get it first.” Lon looked at him. He had entered the room loose and carefree and thirsty, but now he was back at work again. An exclusive on the murder of Louis Rony was nothing to relax about.