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

Sam Blythe sat up abruptly, his eyes on Ragan’s and Luretta lost her smile. She was suddenly serious. “No, not exactly, but I guess what I told you could be taken that way. Do you think that was why he was killed? Because he knew, and tried to get his money back?”

It was a theory and a good one. Suppose Ambler possessed information not available to the police, and believed he could get his money returned by promising not to turn in the thief? If he contacted the criminal, that would be a motive for murder. Joe realized there were other reasons for murder. He believed the relationship of Ambler and Luretta was strictly business, as they represented it — but suppose someone had not?

Yet the only admirer of Luretta’s he knew was Lew Ryerson, and that was ridiculous. Or was it?

Such a girl as Luretta Pace would have many admirers. That Sam Blythe thought she was really something was obvious. For that matter, he did, himself.

It was almost noon when he left the club and walked out into the sunlight, trying to assemble his thoughts and assay the value of what he had learned. He was standing on the curb when Andre Gimp came up to him. “Mr. Ragan,” Gimp was fluttering again, “only one thing is missing, and it seems very strange, for it was only a picture.”

“A picture?” Joe Ragan knew what was coming. “Of whom?”

“Luretta Pace — in costume!”

There it was again. The burglary, Luretta, the murder. He drove back to Headquarters and found Stigler pacing the floor with excitement. “Hey,” Stigler exploded. “Look at this! You’ve really got something! The gun that lolled Ambler was the same that killed Charlie Vent!”

“I thought so when I ordered them checked. A hunch I had.”

“You think this ties up with the burglaries?” Stigler asked. Then he smiled. “Ryerson called up, boiling mad. Said you’d been questioning people. I told him Homicide had a hand in it now. He shut up like a clam, but he was sure sore.” Stigler studied him. “What next?”

“A little looking around, then another talk with Luretta Pace.”

In the alley back of the Fan Club he found where a man had been standing behind a telephone post watching Ambler through the window. A man who smoked several cigarettes and dropped paper matches. Ragan picked up a couple of them and each paper match stub had been divided at the bottom, parted by a thumb nail and bent back to form a cross. Such a thing a man might do unconsciously, while waiting.

Ragan stowed the matches in a white envelope with a notation as to where they were found. In another envelope was an identical match. And he knew where more could be found.

Later, he went to a small target range in the basement of Headquarters and fired a couple of shots, then collected all the bullets he could find in the bales of cotton that served as a back stop for the targets.

Luretta met him at the door when he arrived, and he smiled at her curious glance. “Wondering?” he asked.

“Wondering whether this call is business or social.” She took his hat, then glanced over her shoulder. “Drink?”

“Bourbon and soda.”

She was wearing sea green slacks and a pale yellow blouse. Her hair was down on her shoulders and it caught the sunlight. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, watching her move about.

“Ever think about Charlie?” he asked suddenly.

The hand that held the bottle hesitated for the briefest instant. When she came to him with his drink and one of her own, she looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s a curious thing to ask. Charlie’s been dead for four, nearly five months.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ragan said.

She looked over her glass at him. “Occasionally. He wasn’t a bad sort, you know, and he really cared for me. But why bring him up?”

“Oh, just thinking!” The highball tasted good. He realized suddenly that he was sleepy. “I wondered if some of your most recent company had made you forget him.”

Luretta looked him over carefully. “Joe,” she said suddenly, “you’re not subtle. Why don’t you come right out and ask me what you want to know?”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. The truth is, I’ve got a finger on something and its pure dynamite. I can’t do a thing until I know more or the whole thing is liable to fly up and hit me in the face.

“This I will say. Two things are tied up with the killing of Pike Ambler. One of them is these burglaries, and the other one is you.”

“Me?” She laughed. “Oh, no, Joe! Don’t tell me that! Why, it couldn’t be! There was nothing between us, and you certainly don’t think I double in robbing safes?”

“No, I don’t. Nor do I think there was anything between you and Pike. It’s what somebody else might think. Moreover, you may know more than you realize, and I believe if I could be inside your mind and memory, I could put the pieces together that would give me a murderer.” He got to his feet and put his glass down. “If anybody should ask you, this call was purely social. If you’re looking as lovely as you do now, it would be easy to believe!”