Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

I was still wracking my brains as I climbed into bed. It seemed an absolute cinch to nail Parry if I could somehow keep an eye on Abbott’s mail — provided, of course, my theory was right.

I had come to no solution when I went to sleep; nor when I arrived at the office on the following morning.

Sackler was at his desk waiting for me to hand him the morning paper. I did so and inquired, “Any line on Parry?”

He said, “Parry? Oh, he’ll probably turn up sooner or later. I’m working on a different angle.”

“What other angle is there?”

He shrugged and turned to the financial page. I remained silent for a while, then asked nervously, “Is there any line on this Abbott woman?”

“Nothing much. She’s a widow. Friend of the Parry family. That’s all.” He paused a moment, then glanced at me sharply. “You’re not free lancing on this, are you? You don’t figure Abbott did it?”

I breathed an inward sigh of relief. If he spoke like that, it argued he hadn’t worked out the same theory I had.

I said, “Of course, I don’t figure Abbott did it. Parry did it obviously. It’s just a matter of finding him.”

He grunted and returned to the paper. I lit a cigarette and my head ached with thinking. I was surer of this case than I had ever been of anything. It was just a matter of somehow getting to Abbott to find out if she knew where Parry was.

It was a little after 11:00 o’clock when the door opened and Harry Franklin came in. He bowed, sat down and passed around a cigar case. Sackler grabbed his as if it had been a hundred dollar bill.

“Something came up this morning,” said Franklin. “I’ve already given it to the police; since you’re working on the case, I thought I’d drop in and tell you about it, too.”

Sackler puffed on his free cigar and said, “Decent of you.”

“Yesterday afternoon,” said Franklin. “Parry came to my office to draw some cash. I take care of all his wife’s affairs. If she needs money she simply sends me a receipt for it and I hand over the cash. Well, Parry came in yesterday with a receipt, signed by his wife, saying she wanted five thousand dollars. This has happened before and naturally I merely glanced over the signature.”

Sackler glanced at him sharply. “You mean Mrs. Parry’s signature was forged.”

“That’s right,” said Franklin. “It wasn’t even a good imitation of her writing. But, I guess, Parry figured correctly I wouldn’t examine it too closely. She’d sent him for money before.”

Sackler nodded slowly. “So you believe that Parry forged the signature, came to you for cash to run away after he’d killed his wife?”

Franklin seemed mildly surprised. “Why, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“It’s obvious enough,” I said, giving voice to my own problem. “The trouble is we don’t need any evidence proving Parry’s guilty; we need evidence showing where the devil he is.”

Sackler gave me a long, hard look. “Ah,” he said, “you’ve been working out a theory, Joey?”

“I don’t even think the case needs a theory,” said Franklin. “The police, everyone know Parry is guilty. Don’t you think so, Mr. Sackler?”

Sackler drew a deep breath. He said, “I haven’t made up my mind. All I know is that Joey, here, never came to a correct conclusion in his life. That rather throws me over to believing that Parry is innocent.”

I smiled blandly. I was closer to nine grand than he was. All I had to do was to figure out how to get hold of Abbott’s mail.

Franklin said slowly, “I can’t see how anyone but Parry had either opportunity or motive.”

“Well,” said Sackler noncommittally. “I’m working on it. Thanks, anyway, for letting me know about that forged receipt.”

Franklin nodded, stood up. There was a thoughtful expression on his cherubic face as he left the office. Rex Sackler went back to the morning paper. I went back to my problem.

I went out to lunch alone to avoid getting stuck with Sackler’s check. I ate two hamburgers, washed them down with two glasses of beer and returned to the office. I still had no solution.

The afternoon went by quietly. Sackler leaned back in his swivel chair and stared at the far wall. He, too, seemed lost in thought. I doodled on the pad before me and my head ached with the strain I was putting cm it.

Then, about 4:30, the hood came in. I looked up as the door slammed to see a swarthy, heavy-set individual with a chest like an anvil. His eyes and complexion were dark and there was a livid scar on one side of his face. His lips were thick and his hat was pushed on the back of his head. His hair was greasy and slicked down. As I watched him I had a vague feeling that I had seen him somewhere before.

He looked at me, then at Sackler.

He said, “Which of you mugs is Sackler?”

I pointed across the room and said, “He is.”

The hood said, “Ah,” and thrust his hand in his pocket. When he withdrew it again it held an automatic, the muzzle of which drew a bead on Sackler’s heart.