He looked up and Eddie Hughes was turning away, the ghost of a smile flickering on the ends of his lips, to be lost immediately in the mask of his countenance.
“What the devil are you laughing at?” he asked.
“Sorry, sir. I forgot myself,” replied Eddie. “I was thinking about the Japanese who described billiards as a game where two large men poked at three little balls with sticks, and one man said ‘Damn!’ and the other said ‘Hard luck, old man!’” He turned away.
Val could not resist a smile. “What’s that got to do with this case?” he inquired.
“Nothing, sir,” responded Eddie. “Only, in a billiard game, a man generally has another chance to shoot.”
“You mean you have an idea?” queried Val. The other nodded.
“I think so, sir.”
“Well, if you have, spill it. Don’t pull any of your old allegories on me—I’m not a Bible student,” snapped out Val.
“Why, it’s just this, sir. You know the Planet, of course.”
“I ought to,” came back Val, “I own a couple of million dollars’ worth of stock in it.”
“Exactly.” Eddie bowed his head respectfully. “Well, if you want information about anybody in the world, a newspaper is the place where you stand the best chance of getting it. If there has ever been a Pomeroy who had a daughter by the name of Jessica—if he has ever had reason to figure in the papers at all—you’ll probably find out what you want in the ‘morgue’ of the Planet. Dessert, sir?”
Val stared at him as though he were a wraith risen
