The Chase of the Golden Plate Read Free Page B

last was, perhaps, an astonishing trait in a reporter; and Hatch was positively finicky on the point. That’s why his City Editor believed in him. If Hatch had come in and told his City Editor that he had seen a blue elephant with pink side-whiskers his City Editor would have known that that elephant was blue—mentally, morally, physically, spiritually and everlastingly—not any washed-out green or purple, but blue.
    Hatch was remarkable in other ways, too. For instance, he believed in the use of a little human intelligence in his profession. As a matter of fact, on several occasions he had demonstrated that it was really an excellent thing—human intelligence. His mind was well poised, his methods thorough, his style direct.
    Along with dozens of others Hatch was at work on the Randolph robbery, and knew what the others knew—no more. He had studied the case so closely that he was beginning to believe, strangely enough, that perhaps the police were right in their theory as to the identity of the Burglar and the Girl—that is, that they were professional crooks. He could do a thing like that sometimes—bring his mind around to admit the possibility of somebody else being right.
    It was on Saturday afternoon—two days after the Randolph affair—that Hatch was sitting in Detective Mallory’s private office at Police Headquarters laboriously extracting from the Supreme Intelligence the precise things he had not found out about the robbery. The telephone-bell rang. Hatch got one end of the conversation—he couldn’t help it. It was something like this:
    â€œHello! … Yes, Detective Mallory. … Missing? … What’s her name? … What? … Oh, Dorothy! … Yes? … Merritt? … Oh, Merryman! … Well, what the deuce is it then? … SPELL IT! … M-e-r-e-d-i-t-h. Why didn’t you say that at first? … How long has she been gone? … Huh? … Thursday evening? … What does she look like? … Auburn hair. Red, you mean? … Oh, ruddy! I’d like to know what’s the difference.”
    The detective had drawn up a pad of paper and was jotting down what Hatch imagined to be the description of a missing girl. Then:
    â€œWho is this talking?” asked the detective.
    There was a little pause as he got the answer, and, having the answer, he whistled his astonishment, after which he glanced around quickly at the reporter, who was staring dreamily out a window.
    â€œNo,” said the Supreme Intelligence over the phone. “It wouldn’t be wise to make it public. It isn’t necessary at all. I understand. I’ll order a search immediately. No. The newspapers will get nothing of it. Good-by.”
    â€œA story?” inquired Hatch carelessly as the detective hung up the receiver.
    â€œDoesn’t amount to anything,” was the reply.
    â€œYes, that’s obvious,” remarked the reporter drily.
    â€œWell, whatever it is, it is not going to be made public,” retorted the Supreme Intelligence sharply. He never did like Hatch, anyway. “It’s one of those things that don’t do any good in the newspapers, so I’ll not let this one get there.”
    Hatch yawned to show that he had no further interest in the matter, and went out. But there was the germ of an idea in his head, which would have startled Detective Mallory, and he paced up and down outside to develop it. A girl missing! A redheaded girl missing! A redheaded girl missing since Thursday! Thursday was the night of the Randolph masked ball. The missing Girl of the West was redheaded! Mallory had seemed astonished when he learned the name of the person who reported this last case! Therefore the person who reported it was high up—perhaps! Certainly high enough up to ask and receive the courtesy of police suppression—and the missing girl’s name was Dorothy Meredith!
    Hatch stood still for a long time on the