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

Blossom turned a disdainful stare on him. She weighed a good fifty pounds heavier than her husband and towered eight inches over him. She had her lush sort of beauty while he, with his bald head and button nose, could never be called handsome.

His best feature was his eyes, which were bright and blue as gunmetal. They were their brightest and bluest when Timothy was near Blossom, for then they shone with loving admiration for her — even when she treated him with scorn, as she did so often.

“Who’s Lennox, you ask me?” she said scathingly. “Sometimes I think you must be the dumbest runt—”

“Len Lennox is— Oh, never mind!” Blossom added acridly. “Among other important things he happens to be one of your steady customers.”

Undisturbed by the sneering note in Blossom’s voice, Regg answered thoughtfully, “Lennox? I don’t remember having that name in my little black book, sweetie.”

She stared at him now in silent contempt. He seemed to have failed in the first place to recognize Len Lennox as a smooth, big-time operator having such diverse interests that he might easily find use for more than one name. Blossom appreciated so much more about Lennox’s situation than her husband did, that she couldn’t think how to begin to explain it to the good-natured little simpleton.

“And besides, Blossom, sweet,” Regg said patiently, “even if this Mr. Lennox did happen to buy some bottle goods here at some time or other, why should you be upset by the trouble he’s gotten into?”

“Who said I’m upset?” Blossom bit at him. “I think it’s interesting, that’s all. Quit bothering me.”

She marched into the little corner office behind the counter, bumped down into her husband’s chair, crossed her solidly modelled legs and continued to frown over the news about the fugitive cop-killer, Lennox.

A customer came in to keep Timothy Regg busy for a few minutes. Bidding the customer good-by and turning to his cash register with the money, Regg saw instantly that his little black book was no longer where he had left it on the counter.

Blossom had picked it up while his back was turned and was rapidly leafing through it. His reaction came lightning-fast. He snatched the book out of Blossom’s scarlet-nailed fingers and retreated clutching it behind his back.

“Whattaya mean, ya shrimp!” Blossom said, rising, her face furious. “Don’t you get rough with me. Gimme that back!”

Regg shook his bald head, looking immovable. “No. Not my little black book. Anything else of mine you can have for the taking, Blossom. Help yourself to every dollar in the cash register, I won’t care. Get mad and bust every bottle on these shelves, tear the shirt right off my back. Anything I own is yours, Blossom, sweet — except you can’t have my little black book.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why not? As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been guarding that thing like a miser guards his gold. What’ve you got written in it?”

“Just information, Blossom, such as the names and addresses of all my customers, with their likes and dislikes. But I’ve been many years accumulating it, Blossom, and it’s the very cornerstone of my business now, the most valuable thing I own. I just can’t let anybody touch it — not even you, my sweet.”

“I don’t get this,” Blossom said. “What’s so precious about a few names and addresses and such stuff?”

Her husband smiled patiently as he explained. When certain rare wines came in, he saved them for certain customers who preferred them. He had a number of free-spenders to whom he never mailed bills, for reasons of domestic strategy; with these, he always waited until they came in to pay cash.

Then too, some of his best customers had deliveries made to addresses other than their homes or offices — sometimes to two or three other places — and Timothy Regg offered an extremely valuable service by never getting such delicate situations fouled up.

“So you see, Blossom, dear, this little black book is not only my most valuable business asset,” Regg wound up, “but also, if this information should leak out to the wrong places it might cause no end of terrible trouble to my very best customers. That would ruin me, Blossom dear, and maybe ruin them too.”

A glitter had appeared in Blossom’s eyes. She answered with what was, in her, a surprising degree of understanding, “Well, I really can’t blame ya, Timmy. Like for instance, if you’ve got the name of an important man like, say, Mr. Ned Nelling, you’ve probably got him at one or two addresses which he would want us to keep mum about.”

Blossom had mentioned the name of Nelling as a sly means of testing the value of that little black book and her husband’s awareness as well. It was no secret to Blossom that Len Lennox had often found it convenient to be Ned Nelling. She watched her husband’s homely face to see whether it registered any suspicion of this; but it did not.