Lieutenant Freeborn’s in Christianville because his best friend, a journalist named Stan Manley, sent him a vague telegram requesting help. As someone whose first remembered book, a Damon Runyon collection, was read to him by his grandfather, I’ve always been fascinated with journalism and where old timey journalists worked. So at least one scene consisting of that had to be included. Thus they plan on meeting at Stan’s workplace (this being a work of fiction, of course I’m taking many liberties).
Typewriter sounds; the smell of printing ink; a sign signifying The Christianville Clarion – and being the crack sleuth he’s been imagining himself, “Aha! The Christianville Clarion, I presume,” tickled by his own fancy, “StantheMan howthuheckahya!” barging inside with vaudevillian gusto, “Always better late than never! Ha-cha-cha-cha!”
Surprising a rich old goose ripe for plucking caught mid-step holding three short glasses and one tall bottle. “What is the meaning of this intrusion!” He hides the fixings behind his back and, to a smattering of backroom mutters, sidles all but his bespectacled florid face momentarily from view. “This is no way to behave,” slamming the door behind him, “No way! Can’t you see this is a place of business? It’s not some pool hall I’m running here!” becoming most business-like, “Well, what is it?”
The Courier staff worked out of those offices until 1910, when a new building was built.
Today that building adjoins the police station and looks like this: