Chapter 14. On the 12th floor of the monument to the lapsed standards of journalistic integrity

that was the Toronto Chronicle Building, Jack Peters sat behind his desk deep in contemplation.

His lanky form was sprawled, feet first across his desk as he drummed his fingertips on his chair arms and thought.

The battered typewriter upon his desk had clearly been rudely pushed aside in favor of the telephone

at some point in the recent past, and its situation had not improved since.

He stared at the wall a moment deep in thought. Through the frosted pane of glass in his door, he could see there wasn't much light left on in the outer offices.

It was late, and in the evenings the chronicle carried no more than a skeleton staff on the city desk for emergencies.

Deep in the bowels of the great paper, the real work continued.

Mighty presses were rolling, churning out bales of ink-stained hyperbole for the morning edition,

but after hours the editorial department was sleepy at best.

At length, he shook his head little as if, brushing aside the mode of a notion that had held him wrapped,

lowered his feet to the floor, and turned without standing to reach for his hat behind him. He almost jumped out of his skin at the side of a

girl in a gray cat suit, crouched on the window ledge, watching him silently. What have I told you?

He said at length when he had composed himself a little about sneaking up on a guy like that.

Beats me, the flying squirrel said with a grin, pulling her goggles to the top of her cowled head.

But it obviously wasn't very interesting if neither of us remembers it.

This just a social call, the newsman said, or do you need another favor?

You alone, Pee-ity? asked the squirrel.

Sure, he said with a smirk.

Think again, she said, grinning broadly.

What? Peters blurted, turning back in to face the office he had turned from just a moment earlier.

Again, the newspaper man was startled, discovering a tall, imposing figure of a man in a long trench coat,

...