Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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watching the red tail-lights of Sanjit’s car fade into the night. “I suspect a piece of the action will ease any moral guilt Mister Puri feels.”
“I think you may be misjudging him,” said Manjit softly.
Jinnah turned and closed the drapes. He put his hand on his wife’s shoulders.
“Don’t worry, darling. I will let my inherent instincts guide me. The last thing I need is a fatwah against me and my cousin.”
“I know you’ll be careful.”
Manjit hugged him and suddenly Jinnah felt very, very tired. It had been a long and challenging day and the morrow looked just as demanding.
“I think I’ll let my instincts guide me to bed,” he said.
“Perhaps you will allow your wife to assist you?”
Manjit pushed Jinnah upstairs to the bedroom and got his nightshirt and toiletries ready while her temperamental husband undressed. Jinnah was asleep almost as soon as he hit the pillow. His last conscious thought was how nice it would be to bask in the glory of everyone chasing him after the paper hit the streets. And then sleep took him.
Chapter Three
Everyone was indeed chasing Jinnah over his stories the next day. Unfortunately for him, most of them had long, sharp knives they wished to plunge into his back. One of the nastiest shivs was wielded by none other than the Publisher.
“Interfering with an investigation. Gaining access to a witness recovering in hospital under false pretenses. Wildly speculative near-fiction. Jeopardizing the investigation. Refusing to speak with a senior officer who knew of the story and was attempting to give the reporter information that would have resulted in a more balanced article,” the Publisher recited from his notes, frowning.
Blacklock’s face was impassive. He was sitting in the Publisher’s office on the other side of a massive oak desk. He had sat there many times and listened to similar complaints from three other men in his tenure as the Tribune’s editor-in-chief. While listening to the litany of lamentations from aggrieved parties, Blacklock had always told himself that one day very soon it would be him sitting on the other side of that desk and woe to the poor bastard who occupied the chair he was currently in. But he had been passed up — again — and this time by a man who was proving to be even more unsuited than usual to the task of leading the newspaper. During the harangue, Blacklock glanced about the office. It was in the transitional state. The nearly bare walls still had light squares and patches on them where the previous publisher’s personal paintings had been hung. One or two pieces of corporate art, like the 1950s rendering of the Tribune building, remained, but the new man had yet to put a personal stamp on the space. If Blacklock had anything to do with it, the Publisher would have an even harder time putting his personal stamp on the Tribune itself.
“At least they didn’t say we were wrong,” he said when his boss was finished.
The Publisher looked at Blacklock over the top of his glasses. He was clutching a copy of Jinnah’s front-page article. Several words and paragraphs were marked and there were hastily scrawled notes in the margins. Blacklock sighed inwardly and adopted the “experienced editor showing the rookie publisher the ropes” routine he’d perfected some two management generations ago.
“Sir, if I may explain: the police always say these things when we print something they don’t like. It’s not that we’re wrong, it’s just that the police like to work in secret and they don’t like it when a reporter employs their own tactics against them.”
“But calling this man at the scene a suspect,” said the Publisher. “There’s nothing to suggest he had anything to do with Sam Schuster’s death.”
“No, but then, there’s no suggestion he isn’t the man police are looking for either,” said Blacklock firmly. “You see sir, in the broadest possible terms, the police consider you and I suspects as well until we convince them of our innocence.”
The Publisher sat back in his chair. His look was one of total bewilderment mixed with a certain harassed consternation.
“But everyone is considered innocent until proven guilty,” he said.
“It may work that way in court, but believe me, sir, it’s the other way around in a police investigation. I wouldn’t worry overly about it.”
The Publisher picked up the offending article once more and stared at it.
“So there’s no need for a correction? What about Jinnah? He deliberately defied you. He should be suspended or something, shouldn’t he?”
Blacklock smiled inwardly. Now he had the Publisher where he wanted him: asking for advice, using the editor as a lifeboat in unfamiliar waters. It gave him an immense sense of satisfaction and safety. He decided to be magnanimous under the circumstances.
“No, indeed not, sir,” he said, the smile creeping out over his face. “I suspect Mister Jinnah will suffer enough today without any official sanction.”
The Publisher looked completely baffled now. Poor man, thought Blacklock. Perhaps this one will last even less time than the previous chief executive had.
“What do you mean, precisely?” the Publisher asked.
“The police will make his life misery for the foreseeable future, his competitors will be busy trying to knock down his story and of course, I will mention in a completely unofficial capacity my displeasure at his disobedience. And then there’s Mister Grant.”
“Grant? He’ll be sulking, won’t he? He thought he was getting the front page.”
“Oh, I suspect that once Mister Grant gets over his power-pouting he’ll rise to the occasion and excel,” said Blacklock smoothly. “Revenge is a fine motivator.”
“More negative energy at work?”
“Precisely, sir.”
The Publisher’s intercom buzzed. The voice of his secretary, electronically disembodied, floated across the desk.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but you asked me to remind you about your luncheon appointment for today.”
“Thank you, Jackie,” said the Publisher curtly.
Blacklock looked at his boss and dared to raise an eyebrow.
“Luncheon appointment?” he said archly.
“Yes. The first of my new community outreach luncheons. Get to know various pillars of the community, local interest groups, that sort of thing…”
Blacklock tuned out as the Publisher outlined his ambitious plans to give the Tribune a kind, caring face and a higher community profile. Every publisher Blacklock had ever known started out in this manner, wining and dining the local arts council or the heritage foundation, making contacts and receiving helpful story suggestions. It had taken a full two years for the previous publisher to be cured of his illusions. Blacklock was just dreading the prospect when he noticed for the first time that the Publisher’s face appeared to be just a fraction too small for his head — almost as if it was inset in a frame. He was so distracted by this he failed to register the fact the Publisher was standing and the interview was over. Blacklock hurried to his feet.
“And which vitally important local interest group are you meeting with today, sir?” he asked, feigning interest.
There was something about the set of the Publisher’s mouth, the tightness in his voice and dismissiveness of his tone that disturbed Blacklock and ruffled his previously calm demeanour.
“The Vancouver Police,” said the Publisher in a firm voice Blacklock had never heard before. “I’m lunching with the Chief Constable and several of his superintendents.”
Blacklock muttered something about luck and best wishes and scurried from the room. For the first time, he felt threatened by this ad salesman. He hurried down the stairs to the