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

“Days — and hooch in your blind pig at night. Who you trying to kid, Mac?”

He said nothing, looking haughty.

“All right,” I said. “The Dodgers are fine. I hope they always win.”

“I had some dealings with Every,” Mac admitted. “If you got any with him, talk soft, Jonesy. Don’t irritate him.”

“I’ll try not to. But what I want to know is — would you figure him for the kind of guy who-’d want to marry some girl who worked for him?”

Mac shook his head. “I wouldn’t figure him to marry anybody. With his money, why should he get married? He never has, and he’s known some lulus. Why should he change now?”

“Love,” I said softly. “The great, basic urge, maybe.”

“We weren’t talking about love,” Mac corrected me. “We were talking about marriage, weren’t we?”

“A terrific love,” I went on, “for the first time in his life, probably. Would he want to many the girl?”

“Not Valentine J. Every,” Mac said flatly. “No. He wouldn’t marry a girl. He wouldn’t want to, either. He’s very set on the subject. With Every, girls are eighteen cents a dozen, ceiling price.”

I ate the rest of my steak in silence. As Mac had prophesied, it was stringy, small and unpalatable.

I ate it like a little Spartan, washing it down with beer.

Mac went down to the other end of the bar and explained to the man behind the Tom Collins why Ruby Bob Fitzimmons would have licked any living heavyweight.

I went back to the office, and phoned the dairy that kept delivering milk to the apartment of Flame Harlin. I told them to stop it until further notice. I did the same with the paper.

When I went out again, the kid was back in the street, and still trying to straighten out his punts.

He was doing a little better.

Chapter Two

Jones on the Job

The day was warm, still, a lovely Indian Summer day. The Dusy’s tires sang on the hot asphalt, as I drove over to headquarters. Pop had my picture, ready and waiting.

He also had another customer, so I didn’t stop to chat. I could have gone back to the office, to comb through that scrapbook, but it was too nice for that.

I decided to run out and tell Miss Townsbury about the Every angle.

The home that housed Miss Townsbury was a weatherdulled gray stone affair, in a stand of virgin timber near the bay. There was a rolling, tree-studded lawn sweeping down from the front of the house. There were tables under these trees, and chairs. There were people, of both sexes, sitting in the chairs around the tables. Miss Townsbury must be having a party.

The Dusy’s big tires crunched the gravel as we rolled majestically up to the front door.

The man on the porch hadn’t been there when I drove up. But he was when I stepped from the car.

He was the tall and dark and hard-looking chauffeur. He examined me with a scrutiny I thought out of place. It was a police line-up type of examination.

“Your name?” he said, just like that.

I handed him one of my cards.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, yeah, sure. Didn’t mean to be rough, Mr. Jones, but we had a kidnapping scare here, last week, and—” He tried a smile. “Miss Townsbury will see you, all right.” He started to walk away.

I said: “Did you notify the police about this attempted kidnapping?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Miss Townsbury.” He was looking out at the Dusy. “That’s a lot of car you’re driving.”

I admitted it was, and he went around the side of the house.

The door was opening now, though I hadn’t pressed the bell button. The butler stood there, looking more like the standard type of servant, or what I think of as standard. I gave him my card.

From the lawn, I heard the sound of laughter, both sexes. The butler came back, and said Miss Townsbury would receive me, and I followed him into the pleasant, dim coolness of the house.

Right off the entrance hall, there was a small, high-ceilinged room, furnished and decorated in a sort of pastel green. Miss Townsbury was in here, knitting. She still wore the heavy brown silk. She had added a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles.

“Trouble, Mr. Jones?” she asked mildly. She indicated a chair.

“Information,” I said. “Maybe trouble. There’s somebody else looking for Miss Harlin.”

The knitting needles stopped for a moment, then continued. She said. “The police?”

“No,” I said. “A man named Val Every, a racketeer.”

The needles stopped again, and this time she looked up. “Val Every? He’s looking for... Isn’t he her employer? Isn’t he the former bootlegger?”

“The same,” I said. “He’s got a private operator working on it. This operative came to see me this noon.”

The needles went back to work. “You didn’t disclose my name?”

“No. I wondered, though, if we might not offer this detective some money for what information he’s gathered. He can be bought. I’m sure of that.”

She nodded, not looking up. “I’m willing to pay anything within reason, of course, Mr. Jones, but do you think he would have come to you if he had any information we don’t have? He may have come to you for the same purpose.”