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

Spica Zane smiled at the waiter, too. She said: “My uncle isn’t an ordinary customer. He’s an expert on astronomy.” She toyed with the wine card. “I think I’ll have one of those Saturn Slings. Look, Uncle Charley, isn’t it cute? They’ve even named their drinks after the stars.”

The little bald man scowled: “Saturn isn’t a star. It’s a planet—”

He broke off. He craned his bald head forward, his shrunken neck out of its collar. His tensed, thin form rose partly from its chair. His voice, too, became tense. He said: “Waiter, call the house detective in here right away!”

The waiter said: “What do you want of—”

“Shut up,” the small shrunken man snapped. “Get the house officer in here quickly, and do it quietly.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

The waiter glided toward the sidewall, eased out through a side door. He crossed a passageway off the main lobby, hinged open another door, and said: “Hey, Mr. O’Hanna!”

Mike O’Hanna was the house dick. He didn’t look like one. He was six feet of Irishman, dressed up to look like one of the paying guests among whom he circulated, without most of them guessing there was a house dick at their elbows.

O’Hanna dropped aside a hotel protective association bulletin, swung his feet off his desk. “It isn’t nine o’clock. You got drunk trouble already?”

The waiter said: “We got a sun, moon, and star specialist. He don’t like our decorations.”

O’Hanna headed out into the passage. “What’s he doing about it? Tearing them down?”

“Nah. He’s a quiet little guy.” The waiter opened the sidedoor into the Palomar Room. “There, that old geezer with the blonde.”

The house dick sauntered up to the table for two, made it a table for three by pulling up a chair. He peered into Charley Zane’s tight, shrunken features. “I’m it. Now, what?”

Charley Zane said in a low, metallic whisper: “That man in Aries!”

“That how-much?” O’Hanna asked blankly.

“Aries,” the little bald man repeated. “The first sign of the zodiac.”

The blonde smiled and said: “My uncle is an amateur astronomer.”

“I’m not,” the house dick denied. “I’ve seen those signs a thousand times, but I’ve got to admit I’ve never met up with ’em by names. Which one is Aries?”

“The end of the bar.” Charley Zane jerked his head.

O’Hanna turned a seemingly casual glance toward the end of the bar. His glances slid over a drinker nursing along a highball that’d been mixed long enough ago for the ice to have mostly melted.

“The fat man with the glasses?” O’Hanna asked. “What about him?”

Charley Zane grunted. “Nothing. I’m not making any charges. I just want you to remember I pointed him out to you.”

O’Hanna said: “Uh-huh? By what name shall I remember the guy?”

“His name’s Joe McGuffey,” Zane said. Abruptly, he pushed back from the table. “Come along, Spica. It’s high time we were getting back to the chalet.”

The chalets were the hotel’s California-style, glorified bungalows, and they tabbed Charley Zane as no mere minimum rate tourist. The fifteen-dollar-a-day minimum applied to the single rooms, whereas the chalets began at a cool fifty.

The blond girl said: “Oh, but Uncle, I ordered a Saturn Sling. We can’t run off without paying for it”

Charley Zane said to O’Hanna: “You take care of it. Have it put on my bill. The name’s Zane.”

O’Hanna watched them go. The fat man at the end of the bar didn’t. The fat man’s eye-glassed gaze stayed moodily on his unfinished highball.

The house dick sauntered over, parked himself on the neighboring stool. The fat man didn’t notice this, either. O’Hanna gave the bartender the brush-off sign. The bartender wasn’t supposed to recognize him.

“Draw one,” O’Hanna said. He hung an elbow on the bar, collared his fingers around the bar glass when it came, and asked: “What’s that supposed to stand for, huh?”

The bartender asked: “What’s what supposed to stand for?”

O’Hanna said: “That sign at the end of the bar. The Indian good luck charm, or whatever it is.”

Beside him, the fat man aroused from his reverie. “It’s a Chaldean symbol,” he said. “That’s Aries, the first sign of the zodiac.”

O’Hanna wasn’t surprised to hear this. He stared at the fat man, and made his voice sound startled. He said: “I’ll be damned! You must be a regular professional astronomer, huh?”

The fat man looked complimented. He blinked behind his eyeglasses, parting his fleshy lips in a flattered chuckle. “Oh, no. You couldn’t call me that. I’m afraid I’m just an amateur.”

The house dick swung on the stool, said brightly: “Well, what a coincidence! It’s funny, but you’re the second amateur astronomer I’ve encountered today. The other was a chap named Zane. You two ought to get together, probably you have lots in common.”

Joe McGuffey’s fat face lost its look of innocent pleasure. His pale eyes stormed behind the curved panes of his spectacles. His lips writhed, and his words came out hotly. “I’ve already met Charley Zane! He’s a damned crook! He’s trying to steal my comet!”

O’Hanna was astonished. “You mean a real comet? One of those fireballs with a tail on it? Up in the sky?”