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

It was a hell of a question, and put very bluntly. But I think she understood there was no malice in my asking it. I heard no sound excepting the rumble of thunder, outside, and the clack of a typewriter from somewhere inside.

And then she said: “Not for long. I found out, in time.”

Only that, and the click of the phone on her end as she hung up.

I phoned Miss Townsbury. “Something’s come up,” I told her. “I must see you, right away.”

She would be at home all day, she informed me.

Devine was still in with the Chief. I told Harvey: “I’m going across the street and get a sandwich. I’ll be back.”

I was still there, in the counter lunchroom, when Devine came in. He said: “The Old Man said O.K. Who do you want?”

“You and Harvey in the tonneau,” I said. “Melkins, Red Small, Jackson and Schulte. One of the M.E.’s, prepared to make an examination right on the spot. I think we can forget the warrants.”

“What’s it all about,” Devine said, “or am I being personal?”

I told him what I thought, and why, and he looked skeptical. But he didn’t discourage the trip. He would have liked to see me miss this one — the stage was properly set for me to look very silly if I missed.

We rode up that way, three of us in the Dusy, the others following in a squad car. I moved along at a smart clip. Without conversation, it was a boring trip, and neither of my riders seemed to be very much interested in conversing.

I put Schulte at the gate. We rode around the entire estate, and I put the others where I thought they should be, though only the gate really needed watching. But I hadn’t known this before coming up. Then Devine and Glen ducked down in back, while I drove up the gravel drive.

Carl wasn’t in sight this afternoon. Miss Townsbury herself came to the door. She was wearing the steel-rimmed glasses again. We walked back together to the pastel blue room. There was no knitting in sight.

I sat in the same rocker, and she in her knitting chair. I told her about the death of Rodney Carlton.

She showed no emotion at the news.

I said: “He didn’t die right away. He talked, before he died.”

There was emotion now — fear in the cold eyes, and a stiffening of the spine. “To — whom did he talk, Mr. Jones?”

“To me,” I lied.

There was some relaxation in her posture, some relief.

“Miss Harlin is dead, isn’t she?” I asked her suddenly.

Again, the stiffening. “Are you insane, Mr. Jones? If I knew she were dead, would I have engaged your services?”

“You might. You knew I was in with the department. You could do that to make the police think you were worried about her, as a sort of advance alibi. If you went directly to the police, they’d be coming up here. They’d be nosing into your business.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, without expression. She was only mouthing words.

“Maybe. Or maybe you wanted Every to think you were worried about her. Is he getting out of hand, Miss Townsbury?”

“I don’t know the man,” she said.

“You knew he was a bootlegger, though he was never well known by anyone outside of the department. You knew him, all right. He worked for you. His little fat friend knew you, too, though he tried to pretend in my office that he’d only heard of you. And Miss Meredith knows you, too. The tie-up’s there, all right. It’s clear enough.”

Light glinted off the lenses of her glasses. She was studying me, all pretense of indignation gone, sizing me up. She said: “You’ve managed to put quite a few unrelated facts together, haven’t you, Mr. Jones?”

“A few,” I admitted. “That redhead was the tip-off. I could see you had her well on the road. You bring the wealthy drunks up here, and cure them of their alcoholism. But you start them on something worse. Is it morphine? Opium?”

“And why would I do that?”

“So you can sell it to them. Or so Every can, through your cooperation. They aren’t likely to talk, your customers, are they?”

“Talk to whom?”

“To the police.”

“No,” she admitted. “They aren’t likely to go to the police. And neither are you, Mr. Jones. This place is well guarded.”

There was somebody else in the room. The chauffeur, Carl. The gun he had in his hand was a Colt Camp Perry model, a single shot pistol with a long barrel, a hell of a long barrel. It was a .22.

“That’s the gun that killed Lundgren and Carlton, isn’t it? Is that the one that killed Miss Harlin, too?”

Carl said nothing, the long barrelled gun held unwaveringly in his hand.

Miss Townsbury said: “All three of them made the mistake of trying to blackmail me. Is that the mistake you were trying to make, Mr. Jones?”

“No,” I said.

“Both Lundgren and that poet,” she went on, “knew that Flame came up here. That poet put her on the train that took her up here. Both of them know that was when she disappeared.” She looked down at the floor. “That’s why they died. They tried to blackmail me. That’s why she died, too, that night—” Her voice trailed off.

“Carl took care of them?” I asked. “All of them?”