Black Mask (Vol. 33, No. 3 — September 1949)

Ragan nodded. With Captain Bob Dixon headed for early retirement Ryerson was acting in charge of the burglary detail. If he made a record his chances of taking Dixon’s job were good.

He knew the Fan Club. A small club, working in the red, it had recently zoomed into popularity on the dancing of Luretta Pace. He was considering that when he arrived at the club with Sam Blythe and young Lew Ryerson. Sam was a veteran, Lew a tall young man with a narrow face and shrewd eyes. He had been only four months in the department.

Sam Blythe glanced at the hole chopped through the ceiling, then at the safe. “An easy one, Joe. Entry through the ceiling, a punch job on the safe, nothing touched but money, and the floor swept clean after the job was finished.” He walked over to the waste basket and picked from it a crumpled wad of crackly paper. “And here’s the potato chip sack — all the earmarks of a Pete Slonski job.”

Ragan rubbed his jaw and said nothing, his eyes puzzled and probing.

“Slonski, all right,” Ryerson agreed. “It checks with the modus operandi file, and it’s as open and shut as the Smiley case. I’ll call Headquarters and have them send out a pickup on Slonski.”

“Take it easy,” Ragan interrupted, “let’s look this over. Something smells.”

“What’s the matter?” Lew Ryerson was like his brother, too impatient to get things done. “You can see Slonski written all over it, like Sam said.”

“Yeah,” Ragan was dubious, “it does look like it.”

“It is it!” Ryerson replied flatly. “I’m going to call in.”

“It won’t do any good,” Ragan said mildly. “I said something smelled and it does. This job would even fool Slonski — but he didn’t do it.”

Sam Blythe was puzzled, Ryerson irritated. “How can you be so sure?” Ryerson demanded. “It’s obvious to me!”

“This isn’t a Slonski job unless ghosts crack safes. Pete was killed last week in Kansas City.”

“What?” There was shocked incredulity on Ryerson’s face. “How do you know that?”

“It was in the papers. And as we have a charge against him, I wired the FBI. They had a check on the prints. It was Slonski, all right, dead as a herring.”

Blythe scowled. “Then something is funny. I’d take an oath this was Pete Slonski.”

“So would I,” Ragan admitted, “but now I’m wondering about the Smiley case. He swears he’s innocent, and if I ever saw a surprised man it was Smiley when I put the cuffs on him.”

“Oh, he’s guilty, all right!” Ryerson was positive. “Of course, he would say he was innocent, but that case checked too well, and you know you can go almost as much by a crook’s method of operation as by his finger prints.”

“Like this one, you mean?” Ragan gestured at the safe. “This was a Slonski job, but Slonski’s dead and buried.”

“Smiley has a long record,” Blythe said uneasily. “I never placed any great faith in his going straight.”

“Neither did I,” Ragan agreed, “but five years and no trouble. He’s bought a home, built up a business, and not even a traffic count against him.”

“On the other hand,” Ryerson insisted, “he needs money. Maybe he’s just been playing it smart.”

“Crooks aren’t smart,” Ragan objected, “no man who will take a chance on a stretch in the pen is smart. They all make mistakes. They can’t beat their own little habits.”

“Maybe we’ve found a smart one,” Ryerson suggested, “maybe he used to work with Slonski and made this one look like him to cover up.”

“Slonski worked alone,” Blythe objected. “However, the similarity may be an accident. Let’s get some pictures and get along with it.”

Joe Ragan prowled restlessly while Ryerson got his pictures. Turning from the office he walked out through the empty bar, crossing the shadowed dance floor through the aisles of tables and stacked chairs. Mounting the steps from the street, he entered the studio from which entry had been gained to the office below.

The door had been unlocked with a skeleton key, or picked open. There was a reception room with walls covered by the pictures of sirens with shadows in the right places and bare shoulders. In the studio itself there was a camera, a few reflectors, a backdrop and assorted props. The hole had been cut through the dark room floor.

Squatting, he studied the workmanship with care. A paper match lay on the floor and he picked it up and after a glance, put it in his pocket. The hole would have taken an hour to cut, and as the club closed at 2, and the personnel left right after, the burglar must have entered between 3 and 5 in the morning.

Hearing footsteps, Ragan turned to see a plump and harassed photographer. Andre Gimp fluttered his hands. “Oh, this is awful! Simply awful! Who could have done it?”

“Don’t let it bother you. Look around and see if anything is missing and be careful you don’t forget and break a leg in that hole.”

Ragan walked to the door and paused, lighting a cigarette. He was a big man, a shade over six feet tall, his wide, thick shoulders and big hands made men look twice. His hair was always rumpled, and despite his size there was something surprisingly boyish looking about him.