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

“A smooth cookie,” Abe said, talking easily now. “He’s from Philly. He’s only been in town here since about the middle of the war. Hell, I got him now. He fits right in, too. You know this gang of refugees that come to town about ’forty-three and started up that diamond factory or mill, or whatever you call it over at Eighth and Green Street? Well, Max Tezzaro promoted them.”

Slabbe’s jaws stopped their steady motion for a second, then went on a little faster. “Uh-huh,” he said. “The Chamber of Commerce gave the outfit a big hand, figured they’d employ local talent and make jobs, and so on.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Abe Morse said. “The only thing they used local boys for was labor, because a first-class diamond grinder and cutter’s gotta be trained for years. These refugees were all from Antwerp and Amsterdam, brought up in the trade. They did a good business through the war. Lately, they’ve been starting back home to Europe.”

“And Max Tezzaro was boss,” Slabbe mused. “Beat it down to the office now. Don’t be cute.”

It was a two-story building of cement block, cheap, hastily constructed with banks of factory type windows. A sign over the double doors on the street said: ACME RAYON COMPANY, First Floor. AMERICAN DIAMOND COMPANY, Second Floor. The rayon company’s looms were clacking at top speed making a noise like an elevated train charging full blast, but the second floor was dim and quiet. As he turned right into the office on the second floor, Slabbe glanced into the long room which housed the diamond grinding and polishing machines. There were two rows of them, but only a half dozen were working.

Slabbe opened the office door and said to a middle-aged woman in horn-rimmed spectacles: “What’s the matter? Is your help running out on you?”

The woman glanced up from her desk, saying automatically: “Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. You can’t really blame people for wanting to return home, now that the war is over, but it leaves poor Mr. Tezzaro holding the bag. He has all this equipment but just can’t find men experienced enough to operate it profitably.”

“So he’s trying for profit in other ways.” Slabbe nodded sympathetically.

“Yes, he’s doing his best to replace these machines with something more practical, like looms. Of course they’re hard to get and it takes money and—” The secretary, for she was obviously that, stopped suddenly, snatched off her thick-rimmed glasses and peered at Slabbe, “Excuse me. I didn’t get your name, sir.”

“Not important,” Slabbe waved. “Where’s Mr. Tezzaro?”

“Why, he isn’t here just now, sir.”

“How long ago was he here?”

“Just a few minutes ago, sir. I expect him right back, too.”

“I’ll wait,” Slabbe decided. “Was he here all day?”

“Well, in and out.”

“Is he married?”

“No, sir.”

“Does his girl friend, Nikki, ever stop in here?”

“Why, occasionally she—” The secretary put her glasses on again. “I don’t understand, sir. May I ask why you’re asking these questions?”

“Just being friendly,” Slabbe said pleasantly.

He drifted over to a side window. He was just in time to see the rakish hood of a shiny black sedan peek out of a garage below. The driver of the car strained forward over the wheel and reconnoitered warily. He was short of forty, with a high forehead, even teeth, ears set a trifle high. He was the man in the photograph which Slabbe had snitched from Nikki Evans’ dresser. He fed gasoline and the car glided out onto the street — and Slabbe glided out of the office.

He knew only the one way down to the street, the way he’d come up, and this put him in front of the building again. Max Tezzaro’s car, if it cut out to this street, would appear at the intersection to the left. Slabbe pounded that way.

A battered, mud-streaked jaloppy rattled past Slabbe and a voice yelled: “Duck, willya! I’m onna job!”

Slabbe didn’t actually see the man who’d yelled, but he recognized Charlie Somers’ voice and veered into the nearest doorway, pondering. Charlie had been at the Carleton Arms Hotel and should, by all rights, have tailed either Happy Lado or Tommy Rex when the pair had run from the hotel lobby.

Slabbe looked up and down the street. He grunted. “Good boy Charlie!” A car had stopped in front of the office door and a tall blond man was slinging his gabardined legs to the sidewalk — Tommy Rex.

Slabbe realized that Charlie had been tailing Tommy cart before the horse. Slabbe peered at the man with Tommy, the man who was driving, and then he said a man-word quietly but emphatically and chewed his gum with short, snappy bites. The man with Tommy was Happy Lado!

Slabbe shook his head. Happy Lado had taken a shot at Tommy when he’d first caught him in the lobby of the Carleton Arms, but now they were together. Howcome? Why?