The Early Ayn Rand полностью

He put the envelope with the two letters into his pocket. He smiled triumphantly. It had turned out better than he had expected. Of course, he did not intend to take any ransom money from Mr. Winford; he did not even intend to fix an hour and place for it; and he was certain that, anyway, Mr. Winford would never agree to pay ten thousand dollars, much less a hundred thousand.

He stretched himself with a sigh of relaxation.

"Well, I'm going to bed. I've got to get up early tomorrow."

"Are you going out tomorrow?" Jinx asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"I've got a little errand for you. There are a few things that you'll have to buy for me tomorrow."

"A few things? What things?"

"Why, if you intend to keep me here for quite a while, you can't expect me to wear the same clothes all the time, can you? A woman needs a few little things, you know. Here's the list I've written for you."

He took the list. It occupied four pages. It included everything from dresses and slippers to underwear and nightgowns to nail polish and French perfume at forty dollars an ounce.

He blushed. He thought with a shudder of what would be left of his bank account, if anything. But he was too much of a gentleman to refuse.

"All right," he said humbly. "You'll get it tomorrow."

"Now, don't forget, I want the chiffon dress flame-red and the silk one electric-blue. And I want the panties real short, see, like the ones I have."

And she held out the dainty little cloud of lace that she had thrown into one of his desk drawers. She didn't blush; but he did.

"All right," he said, "I'll remember... Goodnight, Miss Winford."

"Goodnight — Mr. Damned Dan!"

"I can't figure it out!" Vic Perkins was saying acidly, on the next morning- "Spray me with insect powder if I can figure it out! For one thing, I don't see anything so brilliant in these stories of his. And for two things, all this news he's getting first, well, it's just a fool's luck. And why all this fuss the Editor's raising over that McGee bum what never got two words in print before is more than my intellect can digest!"

Vic Perkins was not quite satisfied with the turn of events. The Dawn's morning number had come out with blazing stories, each bearing a line in big black print: "by Laurence H. McGee." Practically the whole front page was by Laurence H. McGee. There was even a picture of him. And Victor Z. Perkins, the Dawn's star, had to be satisfied with two measly columns on the third page, where he expressed his opinions on the great crime, and they sounded like a mouse's squeal, compared to the roar of Laury's flaming stories.

It had been reported, to City Editor Jonathan Scraggs' extreme satisfaction, that the Dicksville Globe was seriously perturbed by his brilliant new reporter's activity. There could be no one to compete with Laurence H. McGee. He was getting all the news hours ahead of everybody else. He seemed to know just where to go to get it. He interviewed Miss Winford's parents, her servants, her friends. He wrote heartbreaking stories on the vanished girl. He wrote terrifying warnings to parents to watch their children. He seemed to burst with inspiration, and Dicksville's citizens were beginning to gulp eagerly every issue of the Dawn for its gripping, thrilling articles.

"My congratulations, Mr. McGee," said the Managing Editor himself, when Mr. Scraggs announced Laury's raise in salary. "I have a presentiment of a brilliant future for you!"

"Great, Laury, kid, great!" Mr. Scraggs chuckled rapturously. "You have a positive genius for that kind of stuff Oh boy, ain't we cleaning up, though! Extras go like pancakes!"

Laury sat in Mr. Scraggs' comfortable armchair, his feet on the editorial desk, and looked bored. Some of the Dawn staffs elite had found a few minutes to gather around him and congratulate the new star. Laury was smoking one of Mr. Scraggs' cigars, and it made him sick, but he looked superior.

"Your stories are... are gorgeous! Just simply... simply wonderful!" muttered an enthusiastic and anemic little cub.

"How d'you do it?" asked Vic Perkins gruffly.

"It's all in the day's work," answered Laury modestly.

"Oh, Mr. McGee!" cackled Aurelia D. Buttersmith, the flower of the Dawn's womanhood, who wore glasses and had never been kissed. "I'm doing a story on Miss Winford's personality. Do you think it will be appropriate to call her 'a sweet little lily-of-the-valley that the slightest wind could break'? Will it suit her?"

"Perfectly, Miss Buttersmith," Laury answered. "Oh, perfectly!"

"That whole affair is a godsend!" Mr. Scraggs enthused. "By gum, I almost feel I could thank the guy who pulled it!"

Early that afternoon, Mr. Scraggs had another thrill that sent him jumping in his chair like a rubber ball. Laury rushed into the city room, his shirt collar flung open, his hair like a storm, his eyes like lightning.

"An extra!" he cried. "Quick! I've got the letters Winford received from the kidnapper!"

"O-oo-ooh!" was all Mr. Scraggs could answer.