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

“Here?” Mace exclaimed incredulously. “Dead? Look, fella — that sock on the head made you woozy!”

I climbed to my feet, staggering around the room. “I saw her, Mace. She had blood on her blouse.”

“Yeah? You talked to her on the phone a half hour ago too. And Jacksonville is a long ways from here!”

“The blood.”

“Shut up!”

I pressed my hands to my head, knees almost buckling; slumped on the edge of the bed. “I told you I had no enemies, Mace. I lied.”

He sucked in his breath. “You didn’t lie very well, Sprague. You’re not very practiced at it. I knew you were holdin’ out.”

“I was afraid, Mace, that’s why I didn’t tell you all of it. I thought he’d be after me, not Lyria. I left her there this morning. He must have got to her. She wouldn’t tell where the money was. He killed her.”

“Stop babbling!” he roared. “What money?”

I began shivering uncontrollably.

He jerked me up with one mawl-like hand, commenced cuffing me, slowly, methodically, open-handed blows that sent pain stabbing through my head.

My ears ringing, I began to talk, lucidly — and to the point, and he dropped me. I told him about the bank hold-up; the tin box containing almost sixty thousand dollars. That didn’t surprise him because he’d read the teletape at police headquarters. But as for my part in it—?

He stood wide-legged, hands on his hips, hat pushed back, and a look on his face that said I was a damned liar. Those opaque eyes nailed me to the bed.

“You don’t think I intended to return the money? Mace — Listen—. It’s hidden safely right now. Only Lyria knows where. Would I be telling you all this? Would I? Lyria’s dead. Murdered!” I covered my face with my hands.

After a long moment, his voice reached me, as though he was speaking to himself. “You couldn’t be lying, mister. Not now.” He began prowling about the room, searching for something. “This chair here?” he asked, “Facing the door?”

I looked up, groaned an affirmative.

“Too theatrical,” he said disgustedly. “And they can’t lug a corpse around like a suitcase.” He stopped, bent over and made a swipe at something with his fingers on the rug. They came away red. He brought it close to his face. “Look, Sprague.”

“Don’t!” I was shuddering again. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

He lunged toward me, one fist raised threateningly.

I ducked, raising my guard, blood rushing back into my face.

He ploughed to a standstill. “That’s better,” he growled. “They’re trying to turn your guts into jelly. Stay mad, Sprague. Stay mad! Take a poke at me if it’ll help any. But don’t give in to ’em. Your wife isn’t dead. I’d bet on it! She isn’t dead!”

“Not dead” I repeated inanely.

“I told you I had this thing figured! She was faking. If you’d have got to her you’d have known — but they saw to it you didn’t.” He jammed his finger under my nose. “Smell it!”

I sniffed, filled with a mixture of relief and loathing. It was catsup!

Mace brought one big fist into the palm of his hand with a resounding crack. “From now on we’re after them! Here’s your hat. Let’s get outta here!”

I stumbled to my feet. “Where?”

“We’ll use your car. I know this town like a book. We’ll make the rounds and you keep your eyes open for the guy with the scarred chin and — your wife!”

Lyria? Lyria wasn’t dead? I grabbed his arm. “But who did I talk with when I phoned home? Don’t you think I know my own wife’s voice? Mace you’re crazy! You—”

“The sister, you fat-head! Their voices are probably identical, or enough alike to fool you. Come on! We’re wasting time.”

“If Lyria was faking, Mace. That means she—?”

He grabbed my hat and shoved it into my hands, pushing me impatiently out into the hall, snapping off the light and closing the door. He reached into a shoulder holster and pulled out his revolver. “Here — keep this .38 handy. Don’t use it unless you have to.”

“But you—?”

“I’m not in your shoes.”

I slipped the gun into the side pocket of my coat. It was awkward and bulky and the pocket flap wouldn’t lay down, but it was the best I could do. The sagging weight of it felt pretty good at that. “Thanks, Mace.” I hesitated. “About tonight — there in the lobby. I lost my head. It isn’t easy to believe that Lyria — that my wife—”

“Oh shut up!” He batted at the brim of his hat. “I’d feel the same.”

We went down the hall. The stairs gave my head a jolting. It felt like it was tearing from my neck. I barely noticed the people in the lobby, but the hands of the clock above the front door stood at 8. I must have been unconscious longer than I realized.

Why hadn’t they finished me when they had the chance? Or was my friend, Mace, upsetting their plans? Or — and this was what gave me the peculiar feeling in my mid-section — were they biding their time; waiting for a better opportunity?

We were rounding the corner of the building, bending into a stiff breeze, Mace in the lead. The parking lot was black, no attendant. He held out his hand warningly, pressing me back against the brick wall. “Steady. Let’s wait a second. Which is your car?”

I pointed to the convertible.