Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

He stopped at the door. “You scare me,” he said, smiling. “You scare the hell out of me.” Then he was gone, and I heard his small feet, his light tread on the steps.

I phoned Miss Townsbury immediately, and told her what had happened. There was no answer from her for a few seconds. Then: “Perhaps you’d better run right out here. There are some things I had better explain to you.”

I agreed that might be a good idea.

Chapter Four

Knit One, Kill One

There were no guests on the front lawn this morning, but I heard the sound of laughter from the rear of the house.

The Mercedes town car was near the entrance, and the tall dark chauffeur was dusting it leisurely. He nodded at me as I got out of the car.

“Miss Townsbury around?” I asked.

“In that same room. You can go right in.”

The front door was open. I went through, and down the dim hall to the pastel green room.

Knitting, again. “Close the door, Mr. Jones,” she said.

I closed the door and came over to sit in a frail-looking rocker.

“Who was that man who answered the phone in your office?”

“I don’t know his name,” I said. “He works for Val Every. He had a twenty-two on me, when the phone rang.”

“A twenty-two on you?” She looked up from her knitting. “You’ll have to be more explicit, Mr. Jones. What did you mean by that?”

“I mean this man had a gun pointed at me. The gun was a twenty-two caliber revolver. The same caliber that killed Lundgren.”

The needles stopped. “Lundgren?”

“The detective Every hired. He was killed yesterday. Didn’t you read about it in the papers?”

She shook her head. For the first time since I’d known her, her ice-blue eyes held apprehension. “Are we getting mixed up in this, in — murder?”

“I think we are. The police have been after me to reveal your identity. I’ll hold out as long as I can.”

She looked down at the floor, and up at me. “You’re on good terms with them, aren’t you? You can protect me in this?”

I had no answer for her, and said nothing. I had only questions.

Maybe she realized that, for she said: “You must be rather puzzled about this place. I feel that I should be frank with you.”

“You can rely on my discretion,” I said, in my smooth way.

“This place is used for curing alcoholism,” she said, and the needles were back at work. “Our patients are wealthy, all of them. We use a cure that might be frowned on in some medical circles. It’s a... a shock cure. We have had exceptional success. But, of course, publicity would destroy any hopes we might have for continuing the work. You can understand that, Mr. Jones?”

I said I could. But I asked: “The fences, with the barbed wire? The heavy gate?”

The needles never stopped. “There is a period in the cure when they want to quit. Despite the solemn promises they made, before they were admitted, they try to run out during that period. They try to leave at night. We can’t permit this. You may have wondered at Carl’s vigilance. Carl is my watchdog.”

I asked if Carl was the chauffeur, and learned that he was. I asked. “Is alcoholism the only thing you treat here, Miss Townsbury?”

“It is.” She put the needles in her lap, and looked at me with eyes that were suddenly, surprisingly soft. “There’s another story I’ve never told others, Mr. Jones. I’d like to tell you. I want you to understand that money doesn’t motivate me in this work. I have all the money I’ll ever need.”

I waited, wondering at this new softness.

“There was a man,” she said, “a young man, back when I, too, was young.” She hesitated, smiling faintly, sadly. “He was gifted, Mr. Jones, a man of promise, of talent and breeding. He could have been one of our great composers. He was headed for the stars. Until that vile alcohol ruined him, dulled that brilliant mind, blunted his sensitivity.” She paused. “It — killed him, finally.”

There was some more conversation, after that. I promised her I would protect her as well as I was able, that I would contact the Missing Persons Bureau confidentially. I didn’t tell her I already had.

I left her then, with her knitting and her memories.

Outside, the sun was hiding behind a cloud. I looked over at the stand of virgin timber, and over at Carl, still fiddling with the Mercedes. I heard the voices in the back, quieter, now.

Carl came over to stand next to the Dusy. “Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?” he asked me. “Miss Townsbury isn’t going to get into any trouble?”

“Time will tell,” I said. “Where’s the redhead this morning?”

He smiled. “She’s cured. She’ll be all right, now.”

“She was all right yesterday,” I said. “She’ll always be all right in my book.”

His smile was still there. “Well, that’s something else.”

He went back to the Mercedes, and I started the motor. The Dusy went murmuring down the drive, talking to herself.

So the bootlegger and the lady in silk were at odds. One who had made his fortune selling it, and one who was using her fortune in curing it.