Clark's phone rang on his desk, and he answered it. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet."
There was a brief silence, and then he heard a muffled giggle. "Oooohhh, very official, Mr Kent."
Clark smiled. "Lois," he said. "It's great to hear your voice."
"Yours, too. I can't wait for Sunday when you'll be here."
"Yeah." Actually, he couldn't wait for very early tomorrow morning when he would put the paper to bed and - emergencies permitting - fly to Melbourne to be with his wife.
"I have some information for you."
"OK."
"You need to follow up what Seb told me," Lois said. "I'm sure John Glisten and Nigel St John are one and the same person."
Part 56
"How can you be sure?"
"Because the letters of the word 'Glisten' are an anagram of 'Nigel St'," Lois answered. "Put that with 'John', and it's pretty conclusive."
Clark picked up a pen and jotted down 'Glisten'. "That's assuming it's spelled with a 't' and not a double 's'."
"That's why I didn't get it straight away."
"You could have something, honey," Clark said.
"You think so? You think it's a real lead?"
Clark smiled at the eagerness in her voice. A glimmer of inspiration flashed through his mind - what if he and Lois could work *together* on stories? They'd be a great team. "It's definitely worth following up," he said. "I'll contact the police in Cornwall and email a picture of St John to them. They can show it to the guy who told them about Glisten."
"You have a photo of St John?"
"Uh huh. It was taken in the morgue."
"Ewww."
"I saw your Brownlow story on the 'net," Clark said. "Front page, huh? Congratulations, honey."
"Thanks for all of your help - you deserved to share the byline."
There was silence, and Clark grinned, figuring they were both remembering what he *did* get to share. "I should go," he said. "This call is going to cost you a fortune."
"Bye, Clark. I love you."
"I love you, too."
Clark replaced the phone and looked up to the row of clocks set to international times. It was past midnight in London. He did a search for an address and then wrote a quick email to the Devon and Cornwall Police saying that he might have further information on a case and requesting that someone contact him.
||_||
"Albert." That was another of her source's idiosyncrasies - he didn't use his surname.
"Albert, it's Mayson." He wasn't one for small talk, so she began her questions. "Did you go to the library yesterday?"
"Naturally. We had an appointment." That was his way of scolding her for her tardiness.
"Did you notice two Australians there?" Mayson picked up her pen in readiness should Albert have any information worth noting.
"Yes. One arrived at seven and a half minutes to two and the other arrived five minutes later. They were still there when I left."
That meant there were less than three minutes for Albert to have heard any of their conversation. "Did you hear what they were talking about?"
"One owed the other money."
"Did they talk openly?"
"No - they went to the last of the non-fiction shelves and held their conversation at the far end of the row, near the 980s - General History of South America."
"Were their voices raised?"
"One seemed panicky and eager to please; the other seemed coolly resolute."
"Did they talk about sports?"
"No - they talked about the repayment of the funds owed."
"Do you know my colleague? Clark Kent?"
"I know of him - I've seen the posters. He wasn't in the library."
"Are you sure, Albert?" Mayson asked. "It's really important."
Albert didn't reply. He never answered questions he considered superfluous. Could Clark have arrived in the short time between Albert leaving and her arrival three minutes later? It was possible, but if Clark had slipped into the library unseen by either Albert or Mayson, he would have only heard the end of the conversation between the Australians.
That could have been the bit where the man owing money offered information about the medal.
Albert had no patience for waiting while she sorted through the possibilities in her mind, so Mayson fired the first question that sprang into her head. "Was anyone else in the library that you'd never seen there before?"
"Yes. There was an elderly gentleman - bald on top, probably in his mid-seventies, doddery, and with a walking stick."
"Was he listening to the Australians?" Mayson asked as her eyes lingered on the photograph of Lane. Her looks were patently mundane.
"When he enquired of the librarian as to the whereabouts of the large-print section, she had to considerably raise her voice for him to hear."
Perhaps Clark had overheard the men somewhere else - although it was hard to see why they would need to have the conversation twice. Of course, it was possible that either one of the men had told someone else. "OK, thanks, Albert. The payment will be in your account."
"Don't you want to hear about the other stranger in the library?"
"There was someone else?"
"Yes. A young woman."
"Did she listen to the conversation between the two Australians?"
"No, she was working on the microfiche scanner - with four rows of shelving between her and them, it is highly improbable she could have heard them."
Mayson began doodling on her notepad. She was almost sure now that Albert would have nothing useful. "Could you describe her, please?" She was paying him for this information - she should get everything she could from him.
"Dark hair - I couldn't estimate the length because she was wearing a cap, and most of her hair was tucked into it. The lack of bulkiness in the cap suggested her hair wasn't overly long - possibly shorter than shoulder length. Classically shaped mouth. Clear skin. Small ears with one understated stud in each lobe. Long, graceful neck. Average height for a woman, slim build."
Mayson's eyes had lifted to the photograph on her computer screen. If Albert had been looking at the same image, he couldn't have described Lane more accurately. "What colour eyes?" Mayson asked lightly. "Mid brown?"
"Yes."
Mayson lurched in her seat.
It couldn't be.
"Did you hear her speak?" she asked, suddenly breathless. "Did she have an accent?"
"She enquired about use of the microfiche scanner. She had a slight accent - possibly Midwest."
"*American* Midwest?"
"Yes."
Mayson smiled grimly at the improbability of her leap of logic. Lois Lane was in Australia writing momentous stories of international significance about who would take home Charlie; she *wasn't* in Metropolis eavesdropping on two of her countrymen - however much their exchange coincided with her story. "Thank you, Albert."
He'd hung up before she had uttered his name.
Mayson leant back and chewed on the end of her pen.
Lane *hadn't* been in the library, but somehow she'd known to look for listening devices.
Mayson had been an investigative reporter for nearly a decade, and she had never searched for bugs on a whim. There *had* to be a reason - it could be tenuous, but there had to be something to instigate the search.
And in this case, the reason had to involve Metropolis if it were Lane's investigation that had led to the arrest this morning.
Clark Kent was the missing link - he *had* to be.
It was just after eight o'clock. Kent would be at the Planet for at least another four hours. Mayson closed down her computer and left her apartment.
||_||
Clark received a reply from England within half an hour; across the Atlantic, someone was working late. He wrote a brief summary of Nigel St John's murder case and attached copies of his stories and a photograph of the dead man.
He sent the email, pondering Lois's reaction when he heard back from the Cornwall police.
If St John were the mysterious Glisten, she would be jubilant. Clark would be happy, too - he'd have more to a story that he'd thought was dead.
If St John wasn't Glisten, Clark hoped Lois wouldn't be too upset. The stark reality was that the life of an investigative reporter was littered with dead ends and leads that petered out to nothing.
||_||
Mayson let herself into Clark's apartment after having easily picked the solitary lock. Kent had lived in Metropolis for nearly two years, but he still hadn't shaken off his hayseed habits.
She went into his bedroom. Her gaze moved quickly from the neatly made bed. She didn't like to dwell on the memory of waiting there for Clark.
Continuing into his bathroom, she opened the cabinet door. It contained the expected things - toothpaste, cologne, deodorant. The razor was a cheap disposable, which surprised her. Kent always looked so smooth - she would have guessed that he used a top-of-the-range razor.
There was only one toothbrush - and absolutely nothing to suggest that a woman used this bathroom.
Mayson closed the cabinet door and moved back to the bedroom where she searched through the closet. Clark's suits and business shirts shared the space with his enormous collection of ties that hung in orderly fashion on a tie rack.
There were no female clothes.
In the kitchen, Mayson opened the fridge. It was almost empty. Like most bachelors, Kent probably ate out more than he ate in. He was at the Planet in the evenings, so there would be little need for meat and fresh vegetables.
Everything indicated that Kent lived here alone.
Mayson sighed in frustration at herself. Why was she even *looking* for the signs of a woman's presence when she'd already concluded that Lane could not have been in the library yesterday?
As she turned to leave, Mayson noticed a small piece of paper on the floor. She picked it up and read it - 'NSJ - old newspaper reports.'
She stared at it. It wasn't Kent's handwriting.
The paper was flat. It had never been folded, and it showed none of the small creases that hinted at having been stuffed into someone's pocket. If Kent hadn't brought it here, someone else must have been here to write it.
Who?
Perhaps it was a neighbour. Or perhaps Jimmy had come for lunch one day.
No - the writing was too neat to be Jimmy's illegible scrawl.
Did Kent have other friends? People who didn't work at the Planet?
She'd never really thought about him having a life outside of work.
Mayson replaced the paper on the floor and left Clark's apartment deep in thought.
||_||
The detective from Cornwall replied, thanking Clark for his information and saying she had worked on the case six years ago. She said she would take multiple photos to the prisoner tomorrow morning to see if he identified St John as being Glisten.
It was nearly two in the morning in England - Clark should know one way or the other in six to eight hours. By then he would be with Lois.
He grinned - he was looking forward to witnessing her excitement if it was confirmed that John Glisten and Nigel St John were the same person.
Then, *she* could help *him* write his story.
||_||
Mayson arrived back at her apartment, her mind still wrestling with the problem of how Lane had discovered that someone had used bugs to try to ascertain the winner of the medal.
She sat at her computer and read the story again.
Lane had been very careful to suppress any possible suggestion that someone knew the outcome of the medal. The story read as an *attempt* to corrupt the process, not a success.
Yet in the library, the Australian had said that Voss would take home Charlie.
Lane's story didn't mention Voss or - as far as Mayson could discern - any other possible winner.
Sudden comprehension exploded in her mind, and Mayson smiled. Lane *knew* the outcome and was keeping it quiet so she could supplement her reporter's salary with gambling.
Wouldn't that be obvious, though? Even in Australia, wouldn't someone realise that?
And whether Lane intended to use whatever information she had for financial gain or not, it still didn't adequately explain *how* she knew to look for the bugs.
It possibly explained Clark not wanting to speak about it with Henderson. Although Mayson could *not* imagine straight-guy Kent ever being involved in anything like that.
Lane *must* have gained the information in Australia. The story read as a scoop rivalling Watergate, but *someone* in Australia had to know. One of the sound technicians must have talked.
But if that were the case, why not say so in the story?
Was she protecting her source?
And ... as with every line of thinking ... nothing adequately explained Kent's behaviour with Henderson.
Or how Lane's story could lead to an arrest in Metropolis.
Mayson clicked back to the main page of the site and read the headlines. Her eyes stalled on the second one.
'Kendray arrested in Metropolis.'
Mayson clicked through to the story and stared at the accompanying photograph.
It was the guy she'd seen in the library yesterday!
||_||
Clark ducked out of the newsroom just after eleven o'clock to do a quick patrol as Superman. Everything seemed quiet.
Once back as his desk, he opened his original notes on the murder of Nigel St John and began a skeleton story that he could develop if the photo of the victim was identified as John Glisten.
Half an hour later, he messaged Lois. 'Nearly finished here - any chance you will be home early?'
A few minutes later, he received the reply. 'For you, anything!'
Clark grinned and set to work on the final details of tomorrow's early edition.
||_||
Mayson couldn't sleep.
Dozens of questions hammered her brain, and all of her efforts had brought no plausible explanation.
Somehow, Lois Lane knew the details of a conversation between two Australian guys in a library in Metropolis. She'd written a story, and one of the men had been arrested.
It *must* have been Clark who'd heard it.
But Mayson often went to the library to meet Albert and had never once seen Clark there.
So, if Clark *wasn't* there, how did Lane know?
The woman Albert had described sounded like Lane ... except for the accent ... maybe she'd learnt something from Kent during those weeks he was in Australia.
But -
Mayson leapt from her bed and returned to her computer. Five minutes later, she had found the phone number of the sports editor of the Herald Sun - a man called Paul Brown.
She dialled the number and waited.
"Paul Brown, Herald Sun."
"Mr Brown," Mayson said. "My name is Mary Daniels. Could I speak with Lois Lane, please?"
"Ms Lane isn't in the office."
"When are you expecting her to return?"
He paused, as if deciding how to answer her question. "Ms Lane is on leave at present. She won't be returning until at least the middle of next week."
"Oh," Mayson said. "She asked me to contact her with information. I wasn't aware that she was on extended leave. I saw her byline on the front-page story today."
"Can I take your number, Ms Daniels?" Brown asked. "I will pass it on to Ms Lane."
Mayson recited a number similar to the one she'd found for the editor - eight digits and starting with a nine. "Thanks for your help, Mr Brown," she said sweetly.
Mayson hung up. Brown hadn't corrected her when she'd guessed that Lane was on *extended* leave.
And he hadn't given any explanation as to how she had written a front-page story while on leave.
What if ... Lois Lane *wasn't* in Melbourne? What if she were here - in Metropolis - with Kent?
What if the woman in the library *was* Lane?
Why would Kent keep her presence a secret? Why not take the opportunity to use Lane to drive home his aversion to a relationship with her, Mayson? And why was he planning to fly to Melbourne this weekend?
Mayson rubbed her forehead in frustration. She should have printed out the photo of Lane and taken it to Albert.
She would do that tomorrow. If Lane was in Metropolis, Mayson was going to know.
Mayson returned to bed, her mind rolling through the possibility that Kent had brought his floozy to Metropolis - and kept her hidden.
As she pulled the blankets to her chin, her phone rang.
Mayson arose, wondering who could be calling her at this late hour.
It was a female voice - slightly muffled and unrecognisable. "There's a security alert at the Met Bank," the voice said. "Possible robbery."
Before Mayson could ask for further details, the caller hung up.
||_||
Clark closed down his computer and made for the stairs to the roof of the Daily Planet building. It was after midnight, but earlier than he usually got away. He would do a final patrol as Superman and then, assuming no emergencies, fly to Melbourne.
He'd only climbed three stairs when his hearing picked up the sound of a police siren. Stifling his groan, he flew up the stairs and spun into the suit.
||_||
Luthor took a deep drag of his cigar and smiled at his personal assistant. "All done, Mrs Cox?" he asked.
She nodded as she removed the thick mitten from the phone. "All done. Drake will be scuttling towards the Met Bank as we speak."
"May she get a good story for her efforts," Luthor said smoothly. "And she will - if only the costumed alien cooperates."
||_||
Lois wasn't sorry to be leaving Operation Payback early.
The atmosphere had become sombre. Even those people who from the beginning had steadfastly believed Hawthorn would prevail were now, in the shadows of the vote, no longer confident of the outcome. It was Friday afternoon, but that cruisey verge-of-the-weekend feeling was missing.
There were finals to be played, but not involving Hawthorn.
And, from Monday night onwards, she might not have a club.
Her mobile rang as Lois left Richmond station and headed for her unit. She saw it was from her editor. "Hi, Browny," she said.
"G'day, Flinders. Do you know someone called Mary Daniels?"
"No."
"She rang here and said you'd asked her to contact you."
Lois shook her head, even though Browny wouldn't see her. "No," she said. "I don't recall that name, and I wasn't expecting any calls."
"Have you had other suspicious calls today?"
"No. Why?"
"We tried to steer your story clear of any possibility that the bugging of the umpires' rooms had yielded information about the result of the Brownlow, but that doesn't change that you would be the obvious person to ask."
"You think she wanted me to tell her who'll win this year's Brownlow?" Lois gasped.
"Could be," Browny said. "It was a weird call - there were delays and some echoing."
"Did she say what she wanted?"
"No - she just asked for you," Browny replied. "Where are you now, Flinders? Operation Payback?"
"No, I left early. I'm almost home."
"What are you doing tonight?"
"Staying at home." With my husband.
"There's no footy tonight. You're not going out?"
"No. I want an early night before the North-Brisbane final tomorrow."
"Keep your door locked," Browny said sternly. "And don't open it to anyone you don't know."
"You think people will come after me wanting to know if I know the winner of this year's Brownlow?" Lois asked, as dismay began rumbling through her mind.
"Flinders, I don't want to scare you, but you need to be careful. This is a whole new ball game - it's not just footy anymore."
Lois looked around her, half expecting someone to be following her. There was no one who seemed to be giving her any undue attention. "I'm ... I'm sure I'll be fine, Browny."
"Lois, I'm serious here. If anyone *did* threaten you - you give up those names. The Brownlow medal isn't worth getting hurt over."
"I'm sure I'll be fine," Lois said. "Clark will be here on Sunday. I'll be with him for a couple of days, and by the time he leaves, I'm sure this furore will be mostly forgotten."
"I took down the number of the woman, Mary Daniels," Browny said. "I called it and got the souvenir shop in Swanston Street."
"Does Mary Daniels work there?"
"No - they'd never heard of her."
Lois's chest tightened a little. "Thanks for the warning, Browny."
"Do you want to come and stay the night with Sue and me?"
No, she didn't. "No, thanks, Browny. I'll be careful, I promise."
The line went silent for a moment, and then Lois heard a deep breath. "Don't open your door, keep the windows locked, and don't take any silly risks."
"OK. See ya, Browny."
Lois walked the final few metres and turned into her driveway. Esmeralda came out of her door and smiled in her direction.
Sheesh, Lois thought. Surely Esmeralda wasn't after a Brownlow tip.
"Hi, Lois."
"Esmeralda."
"I saw your story in today's paper."
Uh oh. Esmeralda *did* want a tip. Lois hadn't even known she was interested in footy.
"You got on the front page."
"Yeah." Lois pushed her key into the lock, hoping Esmeralda would get the hint that she didn't want to talk.
"I'm sorry, Lois."
Lois spun around. "What?"
"I'm sorry I thought you were doing something wrong, and I'm sorry I told Clark you had men in your unit."
"Ah ... thanks," Lois stammered.
Esmeralda turned to go. "Have a good weekend," she said.
"Ah ... you, too."
Esmeralda went into her unit, and Lois pushed open the door of her own home. Despite his earlier text, Clark wasn't there.
Lois sighed. There had probably been an emergency requiring Superman. All she could do was hope that it would be quickly resolved so her husband could come home.
||_||
Mayson entered the Daily Planet building. She had come to the newsroom to write up the bank robbery story - though it was unworthy of both her talents and the further interruption to her sleep. Two men, definitely not from the top echelon of criminals when it came to intelligence, had managed to disable the bank's primary security, but it hadn't occurred to them that a financial institution would have a back-up system. The alarm had been raised, Superman had come, and by the time the police had arrived, the would-be thieves were neatly secured to a light pole outside the bank.
Mayson's real reason for coming to the Planet was the hope that she would see Clark. The idea of his woman being in Metropolis refused to leave her mind.
It wasn't the fact that Lane wanted to be closer to Kent that was important but that they had gone to such lengths to keep it hidden.
And - weirder still - she didn't appear to be living with him.
How could she be in Metropolis and yet there be *no* indication in his apartment that she had even been there?
Except for the note!
Mayson stopped abruptly, her mind reeling.
The note!
'NSJ - old newspaper reports.'
The microfiche!
The unknown woman in the library had been working on the microfiche.
Mayson Drake squealed with triumph.
Lois Lane was in Metropolis!
She'd been in the library, and she'd been in Kent's apartment.
*That* was how she heard about the bugs. *That* was how she got her story. *That* was why there was nothing in the story about how the police knew to sweep for bugs.
What it didn't explain was why her presence in Metropolis was such a carefully guarded secret.
Was she here illegally?
Kent wouldn't have any part in that.
Was she using another identity?
Why?
Mayson left the elevator and scanned the newsroom. Clark was at his desk in the otherwise empty bullpen.
She boldly walked up to him. "Hi, Clark."
He looked at her in surprise. "Mayson! Did you hear about the bank robbery?"
"Heard about it, went to the scene, got the story," she said. And discovered your little secret, she thought exultantly.
"Good work," Clark said. "Can you get it to me in less than half an hour?"
She stared at him for a long moment, wanting him to stew under her gaze. "Are you in a hurry to get home?" she mused.
"I'm hoping to get the story in this edition," he said calmly. "From what I heard, it's not a huge story, and if we don't get it into the morning edition, it probably won't be newsworthy by the afternoon."
Mayson nodded thoughtfully. "And it's always nice to finish up here and get on with our personal lives." She stared at him.
Clark waited for her to move away, and when she didn't, he said, "The story, Mayson? Please?"
As she turned towards her own computer, doubts swamped the conclusions that only moments ago had seemed so definite. Clark hadn't shown any signs of alarm at her questions. He probably thought she was hinting about them - her and Clark - having a personal life together.
No, Clark, she thought. We've moved on. It's no longer about having you for myself, but ensuring there is no happy ending for you and the Australian tart.
Wherever she is.
