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

“Mr. Nelling’s got no less than four different addresses in my little black book, and a couple of ’em he’s told me never to mention to anybody else. He might call me say, ‘Send a case of stuff over Number Three place,’ and I’d known just what to take and where to go.” Timothy Regg shook his bald head.

“But nobody but me must know such information as that, Blossom. Not even you. Because such information could leak out and be very dangerous.” Backing up his injunction, Regg turned to a cupboard under the counter. He placed the precious little black book inside it, closed its door, firmly twisted the key in the lock, then tucked the key snugly in his pants pocket.

“You understand clearly, Blossom, dear? Never, never, never touch my little black book.”

“Poo,” Blossom retorted, lifting her blonde head derisively. “Anything I need to know, I’m quite sure I can find it out in other ways.”

As if to prove it, she directed her big, trimly shod feet across the store and marched out, leaving her husband to wonder just what she might mean.

Timothy Regg gazed after her, past the stacks of bottles in his show windows, with a sad expression settling on his face. Slowly shaking his head, he went to his desk, picked up the paper that Blossom had left there and read about the city-wide man-hunt which had one Len Lennox as its objective. Then he pulled his telephone close and dialed a number.

“Police headquarters?” he said politely. “Let me talk to Captain Dango, please— Captain Dango is out? You don’t know just when he’ll be back? Very busy on the Lennox case — hmm, I see. Well, it’s too bad, because I have met Captain Dango personally and I think he’s a very fine man, the kind of man I can talk to. I had a little message to give him. I wanted to tell him I’m afraid my wife is going to die very suddenly tonight.”

The telephone made twanging noises at Timothy Regg as he sat there, scarely hearing them, gazing out the street window at Blossom, who was just then hustling out of sight at the corner.

“Well,” he said, breaking in and arousing himself, “I do hope Captain Dango gets back in time, before my wife gets killed. I’d like to tell him about it beforehand, so I’ll call back a little later.” Then Timothy Regg added courteously, “Good-by,” and hung up.

It was 7 p.m. when Captain Dango appeared in his office at police headquarters. He came in quietly through a back door, looking haggard and hungry. The tough job of bringing Len Lennox to book was Captain Dango’s responsibility and he had put in an exhausting day getting nowhere with it.

Chagrined, worried and supperless, the captain sank into his chair and listened dejectedly while Kerson, his khaki-shirted secretary, gave him a brief digest of intelligence received during his absence.

Dango responded by saying heavily, “The hell with that routine. I’m concentrating on a rat named Lennox. Rustle me up four hamburger sandwiches and two quarts of coffee, pronto.”

Half a moment later, before even getting started on this assignment, Kerson was back with another item of news.

“He’s here now, Captain — just came in asking for you. I mean the guy I’ve been worrying about.”

Captain Dango’s own troubled mind being preoccupied with the task of smelling out and capturing Lennox, he had paid little attention to Kerson’s recital. He blinked and asked, “Which one was that?”

“The one who said he’s afraid his wife’s going to die suddenly tonight. He’s here to tell you about it. Says he runs a liquor store on Beetle Street — name’s Timothy Regg.”

Captain Dango’s eyebrows went up a notch. “I know him slightly. What makes him think she’s going to— Wait a minute.” Dango’s interest grew keener. “I remember his wife too. Name’s Blossom. I think she’s been mentioned somehow in connection with Lennox.”

Dango had been far too busy all day to look into such angles himself, but he scented a possibly important development here. He picked up his interphone and called Lieutenant Detective Hyam, who was acting as his first deputy in the Lennox man-hunt. “Blossom Regg — isn’t that the name of the woman who was seen at various roadhouses with Lennox just before he lammed?”

“That’s the gal, all right, and we’re checking her,” Lieutenant Hyam answered at once. “But like I warned you, Danny, it’s too much to expect her to know where Lennox’ hideout is. He’s too smart to trust that kind of information to a casual friend.”

“It may not be so casual on her side,” Dango answered. “Anyway, I’ve got something cooking on her at this end also. Sit tight until I find out what it is.”

Hyam said, “Will do, Danny,” and Captain Dango, clicking off the connection, instructed Kerson, “Bring that little guy in.”

Kerson opened the door and signalled. Timothy Regg entered smiling. He had slicked himself up for this interview, with his best three-year-old suit, last year’s snap-brim felt and high top shoes shining almost as brightly as his burnished ryes.