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

“He did,” I said. “But I’ve uncovered nothing. I went through her apartment. I talked to Rodney Carlton, and—”

“You talked to him?” There was a harsh note in the muffled voice. “And what did that young man have to say?”

“He knew nothing. He hasn’t seen her for a month, he claims.”

“He’s lying.” The needles were resting in her lap, and her frozen blue eyes were glaring into mine. “He knows. He’s got her, somewhere. You concentrate on him, Mr. Jones.”

“I’ll learn all I can,” I said. Then: “The chauffeur tells me you almost had a kidnapping here, Miss Townsbury. Do you think it might have anything to do with—”

She shook her head vigorously. “Nothing, Mr. Jones. It was the daughter of one of my guests. It wasn’t an attempted kidnapping, it was a threat. Some crank, I’m sure. It’s being taken care of.”

She evidently didn’t want any more conversation on that topic. She went back to her knitting, and I promised, before I left, that I’d keep her informed of all developments.

Outside, the hostless guests were doing very well, merrily enjoying Miss Townsbury’s absence. On a bench near the drive, a slim red-haired girl was sitting, regarding me openly and genially.

“Hello, handsome,” she said.

I looked around, but there was no one there. Me, she meant.

“Don’t be coy,” she said. “You are handsome, you know. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Even though you’re not tall, you’re handsome.”

Drunk, I thought. “Thank you,” I said, and climbed into the car.

She came over, to stand near me. Her eyes were a clear, bright shade of green. I saw the dilated pupils. Not drunk, I thought, no, no, no.

“Are we going for a ride?” she asked. “Shall I get a coat?”

From the porch, the butler’s voice cut in sharply. “Telephone, Miss Smith. It’s long distance.”

Without another word, she turned and walked toward the porch. I started the Dusy, and got out of there.

Going out, I noticed for the first time that the fence around the estate was high, and topped with barbed wire. And that there was a heavy gate, now open. The poplars flanking the fence screened it from casual notice.

I stopped to see Rodney Carlton on the way back. He was out in front again, with the nine iron. He had more wrist in them, now. They were landing in the tub. He didn’t look as if he were mourning Miss Harlin’s absence much.

He looked up when I got out of the car. “This national detective week, or something?”

“You’ll get used to me,” I assured him.

“You, maybe, but not that lard-beam that just left. Somebody should tell him about soap.”

“Lundgren?” I said.

“That’s the man.”

“What’d he want?”

“Information. He working for the old girl, too? Isn’t one of you enough for her?”

“He’s not working for her,” I said. “Did you mention Miss Townsbury’s name?”

“I did. Let her get a whiff of him. It’ll show her how the other half lives.”

If Lundgren knew that somebody as wealthy as the Townsbury maiden was interested in Flame Harlin, he’d get ideas. I asked Carlton: “Could I use your phone?”

He nodded toward the door, and went back to his chipping.

I phoned Miss Townsbury. I told her what had happened. I said: “Let me know if he bothers you. Let me know as soon as he does.”

She promised she would.

I noticed, on the way out, that there was nothing in the typewriter.

“Drop in again,” Carlton told me when I left. But I’m not sure he meant it.

I went back to the office, and studied the scrapbook. It was filled with dippings that may have held memories for her, but were meaningless to me. Just the story of her triumphs, large and small — the story of her climb. Up until eight days ago, she had been the featured attraction at Val Every’s elegant and expensive Golden Pheasant Club. There was nothing in there about her background.

About four, Miss Townsbury phoned. She said: “That Lundgren person phoned me for an appointment. I told him I’d send someone over to meet him at his office. You go over and find out what he wants.”

“Was he threatening in any way?” I asked.

“He wondered why I hadn’t gone to the police.”

“Hmmm,” I said, — in my thoughtful tone. “Well, I’ll run right over and set him straight.”

I ran right over in the Dusy. It was a grubby building near the warehouse section, containing (on the first floor) a harness maker’s shop and (on the second) the office of Elmer E. Lundgren, known in trade as ‘Moose’. I hadn’t, as a matter of fact, know until this minute that his first name was Elmer.

I went up the worn, wooden steps to the second floor and down a short and cheerless hall to his door. The door was open.

Moose Lundgren was sitting in a huge chair behind his desk, facing the door. His eyes were wide open, and he was staring at me. But he wasn’t seeing me. He wasn’t seeing anything.

He was dead.