"Good," Rathore said, taking it in his stride. "People tend to look a lot more fondly on a brown man asking questions when he's got a sick child with him. Can you ditch the crutch and lean on me?"
πππππππ.
The boy frowns at the detectiveβs description β how could he possibly feel something like that?
But at his next question, Crutchie stubbornly gathers his courage. He nods, pointing his chin up at an impossible angle, and follows.
βRight behind ya, sir!β
Crutchie Morris / rp account
"Yes, I think I will." Rathore folds up the paper and puts it under his arm. "There's something here. I can feel it on my neck."
He strides toward the building. After a few steps, he stops, turns around to Crutchie.
"Well? Aren't you coming?"
πππππππ.
"Huh...." Crutchie considers the name, then brightens up.
"I think I heard Miss Plumber mention that name! Somethin' like Edward Vance. Scoop's just a nickname! I'm pretty sure he works here. You should go in!"
Crutchie Morris / rp account
"Let's see . . ." He opens the paper with a flourish, flicking his wrists, the paper rustling in his hands. "Scoop Vance. What kind of a nickname is *Scoop* . . . ? Reporters for you, eh?"
πππππππ.
Crutchie does so, checking every so often to make sure the man is following him. He brings him to the offices of The Sun first, stopping at the great stone steps and looking up.
βDβyou know who wrote the article?β
Crutchie Morris / rp account
"Call me Rathore. Lead the way, *Crutchie*!"
πππππππ.
Crutchie catches it and pockets it along with the rest of the money he's made from selling papers. He nods with a smile.
"Crutchie Morris, sir," he returns. "Do you got a name, or should I jus' use 'sir'?"
Crutchie Morris / rp account
"A rather big 'if'. Alright then," he says, tossing the boy the coin. "And there's more if the information's useful. Do you have a name, boy?"
πππππππ.
βMaybe the reporter who wrote the article?β Crutchie points out, a little obnoxiously. He eyes the tossed coin eagerly.
ββ¦ who I could bring ya to, if they work at The World or The Sun, mistah.β
Crutchie Morris / rp account
There's a case coming. Rathore can feel it on the hairs on the back of his neck and hands. He takes another coin from his pocket, tossing it pointedly. "And, uh . . . D'you know who might know if it is?"
πππππππ.
βWell, it is unexpected,β Crutchie admits, scratching the back of his neck. βFolks is sayinβ more heiresses are next. That this lady was ransomed and her pa paid a pretty pennyβ¦ only not to see her at all.β
He shrugs.
βBut thatβs just the news, sir. Dunno if itβs true.β
Crutchie Morris / rp account
Rathore flicks through the paper, skimming the story. "I'm not so sure myself. It's not their modus operandi." He looks up at the vendor, now a little interested. "What else are folks saying?"
πππππππ.
Crutchie smiles innocently at the idea of some boss telling him to sell for a higher price. His only boss is himself! And he just got this fella, hook line and sinker.
βYes sir, all the way from Rochester! Folks is sayinβ the MOB kidnapped her!β
Crutchie Morris / rp account
*how much*?!
well . . . alright. ( taking some change from his pocket and handing it over: ) but you should *tell your bosses* that there's *no news* worth thirty--
( reading the headline. ) though perhaps i spoke too soon. a missing heiress, mmm?
πππππππ.
Oh yes sir!
Thatβll be thirty cents, thank you sir.
Crutchie Morris / rp account
If I do, will you stop *shouting*?
πππππππ.
Wonβt anyone buy a paper from a POOR, ORPHAN BOY?
Yeah, thatβs right. That was my line first.
