James shook his head – too risky.

“I just thought we ought to be prepared for everything. Those cops will stop at nothing to get off the hook on this case.”

That was why somebody ought to go downtown, James said. Just to remind them who the boys were.

And so the two fathers and Uncle Gerald Straus went downtown. Emil drove them to the County Building.

The whole press gang was still waiting around for the boys to be brought back from dinner when the three older men walked into the office.

We crowded around them, these men of millions who had come, we felt sure, to take their sons home. I looked at the two fathers with a dazed sense of my own power, for I held the proof of guilt in my pocket. How had they known so little of their sons! What did my own father know of me?

Judah Steiner, Sr., looked somehow so fatherly, so decent. The other, Randolph Straus, was of a pair with his brother Gerald – both of them more polished-appearing than Steiner, and colder in their manner.

Gerald Straus was the spokesman. “Now, boys, we have no information; you fellows know more than we do. We only came to see Mr. Horn.”

Healy, a staff assistant, explained that Mr. Horn was out to dinner. Yes, he was expected back at the office.

And the boys? Were they in jail? Or where?

They were probably having dinner with Mr. Horn. It was just a matter of getting all the information they could provide…

The mention of dinner with Mr. Horn somewhat surprised and mollified the men. “Naturally,” said Gerald Straus, “we want them to give every assistance they can in this horrible thing. You say they are in Mr. Horn’s personal custody?”

“Yes, he personally is responsible.”

Straus spoke again, choosing his words carefully. “Both families want Mr. Horn to keep the boys until he is fully satisfied that they know nothing that may have a bearing on this crime.”

“The minute he is satisfied,” Healy repeated, “they will be sent home.”

Steiner added that if the boys were going to be held any longer, perhaps it would be best to send down a change of linen, pyjamas.

“Why don’t you give us a ring a little later?” Healy suggested.

The men spoke a moment among themselves, then thanked him, and withdrew. We all followed them to the lift. Gerald Straus was again the spokesman. “Give us a break, gentleman. We want to help, but we also are concerned for our boys and for the family reputations. Some of you fellows have run some pretty damaging stuff about a couple of innocent boys. Now I know what you’re up against, too. But, gentlemen, remember we are pretty responsible families in this town.”

And so they departed.

Fifteen minutes later, the cavalcade arrived from the restaurant. Everyone seemed animated, friendly, but Horn laughingly steered the boys straight through the press crowd. Judd went into Padua ’s office; Artie went along with Swasey.

Tom had tried to stop Horn on the wing; now he strode to the corner door, knocked, and walked in. I followed. “We’ve got something,” Tom said. I put the material on Horn’s desk.

Horn’s short, jabby arms fell on the papers. An instant later, he buzzed for Healy, told him to fetch the original ransom note, and to keep his mouth shut. Of us, he demanded whether we could get hold of the boys who had been with Judd when he typed the law stuff? I said two of them were waiting for my call at the frat.

He nodded. “Get them down here.” His hands were clenching, unclenching. As he looked up, his eyes were glazed. “That dirty pair of fairies,” he muttered. “They had half my staff believing them.”

Tom made our request. Could this break be kept quiet, for the Globe?

Horn stood up, sympathetic. “Fellows, you’re helping me and I appreciate it. I’m going to see your paper gets credit for this.”

Padua brought Judd into the room. We were waved out. As I walked past him, Judd gave me a wary, inquiring look. In my excited state of mind, I imagined it asked if I were trying to do something against him.

Only the typewritten legal notes were in sight on Horn’s desk. Horn asked if he remembered typing this stuff at his house in the presence of several of his classmates? Then Judd saw himself using the portable. So they had him.

But it did not seem possible. He and Artie had proven they were truly of another level; they were minds moving in a fourth dimension unreachable by these mundane police. He stared at his adversaries – Horn, who could say parlez-vous, and Padua, a slick Valentino.

And he began his last struggle, squirming and twisting to slip through their fingers. Yes, he recognized that this added bit of evidence made a link in a fantastic chain. But, he declared, it had not been his typewriter. One of the boys must have brought it along. Who? He couldn’t be sure. Probably Harry Marks. Where could he be reached? Well, he was the son of Gordon Marks of the Marks Stores.

“Call him,” Horn told Padua.

Harry Marks proved to be in Europe.

Horn’s eyes, held on Judd, shone with that unfocused metallic lustre. “You think you’re too clever for us,” he said. “Maybe you’re too clever for yourself.”

Then Judd was in a Marmon again, surrounded by squadmen, speeding once more toward his home, this time to search for the typewriter.

When they entered the house, Judd’s father came toward them with a relieved smile. But Judd spoke loudly. “Now it’s the ransom letter! They want to search the house to see if I’ve got the typewriter that typed the ransom letter!”

Judah Steiner, Sr., seemed not to comprehend. “Is everything all right?”

“Sure. This is quite an experience,” Judd called from the stairs.

Entering his room, he saw the ransacked desk and angrily began to sort his papers. McNamara seized more typewritten notes. Padua, in the doorway, asked, “Those the same batch?” They were. But no Corona was in sight.

The maid was hovering in the corridor. “Say, Miss” – Padua smiled at her – “have you seen Mr. Steiner’s portable typewriter recently?”

“The portable?” Elsa said helpfully. “Well, now, last time I saw it, it was just there, by the desk as usual.”

“And when was that?”

“She doesn’t know what machine she’s talking about,” Judd snapped. But her first words couldn’t be pulled back.

The men searched the room, the closet, other rooms. “No use. I guess he got rid of it,” Padua said. The group started downstairs.

“Did you find what you want, gentlemen?” Judd’s father asked.

“Well, yes and no.” Padua put on his glittering smile. “Does your son own a portable Corona typewriter?”

Hopefully, Judd realized that the old man might never have noticed the machine. “Why, a portable typewriter, no, I never bought him one that I recollect. He has a regular standard typewriter, I’m sure.” Steiner looked questioningly from one to the other. “Are you going to need my son much longer downtown?”

“That’s hard to say. We haven’t got everything cleared up yet.”

Judd showed his father an annoyed smile. The group departed.

Judah Steiner stood there for a moment. His head was moving almost imperceptibly from side to side. Then he went to the phone. He was beginning to feel outraged. But his sister-in-law counselled him to have patience a little longer. And better to send Judd down some fresh clothing.

More and more attackers were lunging at him, but he was fencing them off. If only Artie could see how he was holding them off! But once more they were separated. Once more Judd had been taken to the hotel suite, to be worked on. And there in the room stood Michael Fine, Harry Bass, Milt Lewis. They kept their eyes averted from his; but in quiet voices they formally identified the law notes, and said when and where and by whom they had been typed.