“I don’t think so. The boss didn’t look much different from usual.”
“What’s this Van Pelt’s full name?”
“Hendrik Van Pelt.”
“What does he look like?”
Before Soules could answer, three evenly spaced buzzes sounded above the rattle and whirring of the presses in the back of the shop.
I slid the muzzle of my gun—I had been holding it in my lap for five minutes—far enough over the edge of the desk for Ben Soules to see it.
“Put both of your hands on top of the desk,” I said.
He put them there.
The press-room door was directly behind him, so that, facing him across the desk, I could look over his shoulder at it. His stocky body served to screen my gun from the view of whoever came through the door, in response to Soules’ signal.
I didn’t have long to wait.
Three men—black with ink—came to the door, and through it into the little office. They strolled in careless and casual, laughing and joking to one another.
But one of them licked his lips as he stepped through the door. Another’s eyes showed white circles all around the irises. The third was the best actor—but he held his shoulders a trifle too stiffly to fit his otherwise careless carriage.
“Stop right there!” I barked at them when the last one was inside the office—and I brought my gun up where they could see it.