Back at his desk in the Herald’s office, Ham Gleason felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up into the face of one of the reporters. “Harry Thompson wants to see you in his office. “
Ham walked into the editor’s office to face what looked like a committee meeting. In addition to Thompson, were the Herald’s publisher and two other people Ham didn’t recognize.
“You know Gene Hancock,” Thompson said pointing to the publisher.
Ham smiled and nodded. Hancock paid his salary.
Thompson introduced the other two men. “These gentlemen are investigators from a private detective agency. We’ve hired them to try to get some background about that young Rams player, Aries.”
Ham nodded at them. He was thinking: Good luck. He’d used up all his investigative resources. Maybe these guys had some ways he’d overlooked.
The investigators, one fat, the other skinny, quizzed Ham for half an hour, asking what he knew about Max. When they were finished one said, “We know about as much now as we did when we started.”
The other said, “Well, from now on its pure scutwork. We’ll tail him to wherever he lives, go around knocking on doors, peeking through windows, surveillance from disguised laundry trucks.”
Hancock said, “What do you think are your chances of finding out who he is and where he’s from?”
The fat one pushed up from his chair. “Don’t worry Mr. Hancock. If we don’t find out, he doesn’t exist.”