Free Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief by James Hadley Chase

ambulance and two police cars were parked on the opposite side of the street.
    Jay bundled out of the car. He looked quickly at Henry, and together they ran up the steps. A big cop stepped in their way. “Take it easy,” he said, “you can't come in here.”
    Jay said, “We're goin' in, buddy. Meet the Editor−in−Chief of the St. Louis Banner. Big stuff, boy. Where's your red carpet?”

    The cop didn't move. “Yeah?” he said. “If that old guy's the Chief of anythin', then I'm the mother of kittens.”
    Jay looked at Henry. “He's got you there, Chief,” he said with a grin.
    Henry said with cold dignity, “What's going on in here?”
    Two plain−clothes men from the Homicide Bureau came down the stairs and made to pass them. Henry knew one of them. “Hey, Bradley, tell this flat−foot who I am. I want to go up!”
    Bradley looked at him keenly. “For Pete's sake, it's Henry! What are you doin' here?”
    Henry smiled easily. “I was passin', saw the ambulance, and thought I'd see my man work first hand.”
    Bradley shook his head. “It ain't much,” he said regretfully; “just another shootin'. Still, you can go on up.”
    Jay said, “Who is it?”
    “Guy named Fletcher. I guess someone owed him a grudge.”
    Jay shook his head. “I guess we won't bother,” he said grimly. “Come on, Chief, that's small−town stuff.”
    They returned to the taxi, and Jay told the driver to go back to the Banner office.
    “Does that interest you?” he said quietly. “Grantham must have found out he'd talked to me, so he shut his mouth. This looks like the real thing.”
    Henry said doubtfully, “Maybe it was a coincidence.”
    “Maybe it was nothing of the sort. It sticks out a mile. Who'd want to shoot a guy like Fletcher? Ask yourself. He was just an out−of−work clerk. No, guys don't risk killing a poor punk like that unless it's very important. I'd like you to speak to Poison.”
    Henry said, “What are you thinking of doing?”
    “I'd like to take this up on the quiet. Keep an eye on the Club, find out what I can, and if I get anything worth while, go for it with two hands.”
    Henry relaxed. “Yeah,” he said, “I'll speak to Poison.”
    “Let's go an' see him now,” Jay said. “The old buzzard won't be in bed yet.”
    Henry groaned. “All right,” he said. “It looks as if I'm not going to get any sleep tonight.”
    “You'll get all the sleep you want after you've seen Poison,” Jay said, giving the new address to the taxi−driver.
    They had to wait nearly half an hour before Poison would see them. Then he walked into the small reception−room, a heavy scowl on his face and his hands thrust deeply in his trouser pockets.
    Poison looked what he was: a millionaire newspaper owner. Hard as nails, a terrific worker, and greedy for dollars. He stared at Henry as if he couldn't believe his eyes. “What do you want?” he snapped. “What is this?”
    Henry said respectfully, “This is Ellinger, who's responsible for crime news. He's got a little story that I thought would interest you.”
    Poison didn't even bother to look at Jay. He tapped Henry on his chest with a long bony forefinger. “Listen, I pay you to listen to interesting stories, and to print them. I'm far too busy to bother with things like that. Go back to the office, hear his story; if it's any good, print it, if it isn't, tell him to go to hell.”
    “This story's about Mendetta and the 22nd Club,” Henry said patiently. “In view of what you said to me this morning, I thought I'd ask you first.”
    Poison's eyes snapped. “I said leave the 22nd Club alone. Leave Mendetta alone. When I say a thing I mean what I say.”
    Henry stepped back. “Very well, Mr. Poison,” he said.
    Jay said, “Mendetta's running a vice ring. He's trading in women. Decent girls are being kidnapped from their homes. I've got proof that he is using the Club for this purpose. I want your permission to make an investigation.”
    Poison