Black Mask Detective (Vol. 35, No. 2 — November, 1950)

The darling of the airwaves was the glamorous platter-chatter blonde — until someone tried to rig her into a fast sign-off.

Chapter One Mike Fright

Kay Winters walked up to the microphone as if she were afraid of it, deathly afraid. The engineer, all but hidden behind a panel of flashing red-and-green-colored lights, suddenly stopped playing with a couple of dozen little knobs and dials and held up three stiff fingers.

“Three minutes, Kay,” he warned and pointed at the clock high on the wall of the lounge.

She nodded as if she weren’t sure and glanced nervously at its neon-lighted face, her strangely-dilated eyes almost revealing the all-consuming fear that she felt sweep over her.

For two years she’d been doing this. Every night at midnight for two years she had sat behind that same microphone in the Shell-Aire Cocktail Lounge, and every night when the man at the controls said “Three minutes, Kay,” she’d felt those same cruel little pinchings of fright gnawing viciously at her insides.

Usually she’d swallow hard and try to make the muscles of her stomach good and tight, and then when she heard her familiar theme music on the turntable and the engineer opened up her mike, she’d say:

“Happy midnight, everybody. This is Kay Winters, your girl disc-jockey...”

That’s when the mike fright always went away. But tonight she knew it wouldn’t. Because tonight it wasn’t mike fright. The cold fear that was stabbing deep into her quivering insides was murder — cold, calculated, murder. And Kay Winters knew that she was to be its victim...

Charlie Walp, the program producer, leaned down from the platform and took her small hands in his.

“Easy does it, doll,” droned his smooth voice oiled by the years on Broadway.

As she went up the two steep steps that were the difference between performer and audience, Charlie’s fingers touched the soft fur of his reddish-brown mustache and there was a surprised look on his tired face.

“Like ice, your hands. What’s it, doll? You got that mike fright again?”

“Still,” she said, and she tried a nervous little laugh that didn’t quite come off. “I’ll be all right, Charlie.”

“Sure, sure.” he patted the soft whiteness of her bare shoulder, his palm moist and spongy; then he turned and walked away.

Kay shivered. He mustn’t know; nobody must know about her fear.

She slid in behind the microphone and sat down at the hideous gold thing that was Nat Peters’ idea of a “classy” desk. Nat was the owner of the Shell-Aire and he’d had the gilded monstrosity especially made for her opening. Kay had wanted to throw it out the first time she’d seen it, but it was a present from Nat and she couldn’t hurt his feelings that way, so she kept it and hated it. For two years she had hated it.

The engineer adjusted the headphones on his ears, touched a button, and the turntable started to spin with the sound of her recorded theme music. As a soft white spotlight hit her, the nervous jabbering at the tables on the floor slowed down and came to a halt. Then there was just the clinking of glasses and her theme. By the time Charlie threw her the On Air cue with his finger, they were listening intently and watching expectantly. The waiters stopped what they were doing and watched. Everybody watched.

In the rear of the room a white-jacketed bartender, his mouth partly open, leaned his portly middle against the black and gold wood of the bar. He paused momentarily, the filled shaker he held stiffly reflecting hundreds of bright facets of light from its frosted chromium surface.

“Happy midnight, everybody,” Kay’s warm vibrant voice said into the mike and they all smiled at her. “This is Kay Winters, your girl disc-jockey, speaking to you from the beautiful lounge of the Shell-Aire Restaurant.”

It was just like always then, with them sitting there in the subdued informal lights of their table-lamps watching the blonde beauty of young Kay Winters doing her nightly stint as if she weren’t going to die... as if she didn’t know for sure she was going to die!

In between records someone sent a note up to the desk and she read it cautiously. She was afraid of notes now. As long as she lived she would be afraid of notes. She put her fear back in her throat and said:

“Thanks for the nice things you say about me, Joe Greene.” She glanced quickly at the piece of paper she held in her hand as if she couldn’t quite remember what it said. “A benefit at the Hippodrome Wednesday? I’ll be glad to, Joe.” Her smile was sweet and sure. She hadn’t missed a benefit yet. She wondered if she would have to miss this one...

She looked past the mike into the dozens of staring eyes, and she felt her throat closing up again. Why had she accepted that Wednesday charity date as if she expected to be there? Didn’t she know she couldn’t make it — would never make anything again?

Suddenly she wanted to scream — she knew she was going to scream. She tried to but she couldn’t. Her voice — where was her voice? What had happened to her voice?

They were looking at her, then, all of them down there on the floor; they were looking at her, staring at her. Her friends, her well-wishers, the regulars who came just to hear her, the transients... and, of course the killer!

She searched their faces frantically. Who was it? For heaven’s sake, which one was the killer? The pink and white blobs at the tables had eyes; they all had eyes, and they were watching her curiously. Why didn’t she say something?

She could make out Sue sitting there. She was smiling as if to reassure her. Go ahead, Kay, go on, you’ll be all right, go on! Why was Sue grinning like that? Why?

Good old Sue. Not every gal was lucky enough to have a manager like Sue Grinnell. She remembered way back two years ago when they had started together. Two long years ago. Two years...

“Look, Mr. Peters,” Sue had said. “This is something different, believe me.”

“So what’s different? A plain ordinary disc-jockey?”

He sounded only mildly interested and Kay was scared. She’d already quit her job as the only woman announcer on the small 250-watt station up in the Bronx. Sue had done that to her. She had told her that there was no future in being a gal announcer. It had meant coffee and cake to the beautiful blonde for six months, so Kay had been skeptical.

“Have you a better idea?” she asked.

The redhead had — and that’s why Kay was sitting there in Nat Peters’ office, scared because he didn’t sound as coked up as he should have been over Sue’s idea.

Sue Grinnell slapped the desk as if she were sore at it.

“A girl disc-jockey, Mr. Peters, from a restaurant every night. Your restaurant, Mr. Peters. It’s new. It’s never been done before. It’ll be the talk of New York.”

The pudgy restaurateur rubbed the tip of his bulbous nose with his broad thumb. “So what’ll it cost?” he asked cautiously.

Kay felt the muscles in the pit of her stomach do a strip tease and she wanted to yell that she’d work for peanuts, but she said nothing. Sue was doing the talking. Only Sue didn’t appear to hear what Nat Peters said.

“Well pack them in, Mr. Peters.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll get the after-theater crowd and make it a habit. It’ll be like dope, Mr. Peters. They won’t be able to stay away. Kay Winters will make your restaurant a meeting place for all of Broadway.”

“So, how much?”

Sue leaned back in the large red leather chair as though she’d just finished a heavy meal. The huge chair looked two sizes too big for her — so did her grin.

“Well?” prodded Peters anxiously.

“Line charges, Mr. Peters,” she told him.

Kay licked her dry lips and he echoed, “Line charges?”

“And a percentage of the increased business,” Sue finished casually.

He got up and took a Havana out of a walnut humidor on his desk. The click of the cigar lighter was a loud noise in the vacuum of their hopes.

“Okay,” he snapped with a fat smile. “We do it!”

Kay went in on a six-weeks’ tryout, and by the end of three months she was the toast of Broadway and the talk of show business. Nat Peters walked around the crowded Shell-Aire Lounge as if he’d struck oil, which indeed he had, and by the end of six months nobody seemed to remember whose idea it was.

Nobody except Kay. She never forgot that it was Sue Grinnell who’d conceived it; Sue Grinnell who’d sold it, and Sue Grinnell who guided her always. From that first moment of success in Nat Peters’ office, Sue and Kay were partners, fifty-fifty partners.

The offers for personal appearances all over the country poured in like a flooding river, but there was always Sue standing there shaking her head.

“You’re not ready for that, hon, not quite yet.”

“What are we waiting for?” Kay would ask anxiously.

Sue always laughed and said, “You’re not ready, hon, not yet.”

Then the stars started dropping in. The little ones at first, then those who counted. Pretty soon there was a famous crooner dropping in to kibitz on the air with Kay almost every night, and after a while, it was Sue who got her to see that it wasn’t the things she said that mattered — it was the records she played. That was when Kay realized the power she could wield with her little microphone. She was a little afraid of it. But not Sue.

“Be smart, hon,” she used to say. “Play it smart, real smart.”

Whenever a new show opened up and Kay liked it and said so on the air, it was assured of a long run, but if she panned it, it would fold in a few weeks. Yes, Kay Winters had really arrived. She wasn’t at all sure that she enjoyed it.

“You’re big time, Kay. Go on and milk it; milk it for all it’s worth.” That was Sue.

But Kay Winters’ heart was too soft. You had to hurt people, step all over them. She almost quit once. That was when young Don Davis had a chance to get on the Governor’s staff in Albany and asked her to go along. Of course, she didn’t really need Sue to point out the difference between love in a cottage and the life of Kay Winters, glamour-girl disc-jockey — but it helped. What would she do without Sue?

Don was assistant D.A. now, and he dropped in quite frequently. When he did she wasn’t sure any more whether she had been right in not going to Albany with him — in caring for him less than the adoration of the nightly crowd at the Shell-Aire.

Chapter Two Tune in for Murder

They were looking at her now down on the floor, looking at her, staring at her. She searched their faces frantically. Who was it? Who was it?

She could make out Sue sitting there smiling at her reassuringly. Good old Sue. Not every gal was lucky enough to have a manager like Sue Grinnell!

Nat Peters leaned against the black and gold wood of the bar and watched. He stood there with a vague feeling that perhaps he should count the house, the dozens of heads in front of him, around him, all straining to catch a glimpse of the blonde disc-jockey. But Nat was used to the crowds now. After two years he was used to the nightly swarm of Kay Winters’ admirers. He smiled appraisingly and there was a nice warm feeling inside of him.

A voice behind him said, “What a mob!”

“Yeah,” he agreed happily as he glanced over his shoulder at the portly bartender.

“Like New Year’s Eve, Mr. Peters. Every night like New Year’s Eve.”

Big Nat laughed in a pleased way. “That’s good, Ed. New Year’s Eve, huh?” He said it slowly as if he were tasting it, and he laughed again like a man well satisfied with himself and his accomplishments.

Ed, the bartender, leaned closer. “Can I fix you something, Mr. Peters?”

“Naw, I got troubles here.” He patted his round middle tenderly with a fat right paw.

Ed nodded his bald head and thrust his lower lip out knowingly.

“I see what you mean, Mr. Peters,” he said.

“You can fix me something, Ed,” chimed in another voice, moving next to the fat restaurateur. “There’s nothing wrong with my innards.”

“Sure. What do you drink, mister?”

Nat looked at the tall man with the broad shoulders, clear eyes and dark, wavy hair.

“That ain’t just ‘mister’, Ed,” he corrected. “That’s Mr. Don Davis, the D.A.’s brightest young assistant.”

“Thanks for the build-up, Nat.”

“Give him bourbon, Ed — the good bourbon.”

The bartender snapped his fingers in the air and went to work.

Nat nodded toward Kay Winters up on the platform.

“That’s a gal, huh, that’s a real gal.” There was a big wide grin on his chubby face, but his lids were slits through which the hard gun-barrels of his eyes glistened.

Don turned with his back to the spotlighted platform and picked up the shot glass as fast as the bartender set it down. He swallowed noiselessly and then touched his lips with the back of his forefinger.

“Good bourbon, Nat,” he said but he was thinking about Kay.

These days he was always thinking about Kay. Why the hell did the D.A. send him to Shell-Aire? Of all places, Shell-Aire!

He spun the glass to the white-aproned Ed and tapped Peters on the arm.

“Let’s go somewhere, Nat. I want to talk to you.”

Nat turned slowly as though it were an effort, and there was worry peeking from behind his even smile.

“What’s the matter, kid? Is it Kay again? You still got the romance troubles? Well, I ain’t no cupid, kid.”

Don punched the bar and bit his lip. “This is business, Nat — your kind of business.”

“And yours?” It was like a red light flashing.

“Yeah,” Don gritted, his teeth showing white. “My business, too.” He crooked his fingers around Peters’ elbow. “Yours and mine, Nat.”

The restaurant man’s eyes were opaque pools of surprise.

“You mean it’s official — D.A. stuff?” There was disbelief in his manner and a seared twist to his mouth.

Don nodded at him. “D.A. stuff,” he said. “Coming?”

Nat Peters started to laugh but somehow it had the flat sound of a cracked dish. “C’mon,” he muttered jerkily. “We go to the office, okay?”

Don Davis followed Peters’ fat shape around the outer fringe of tables to a door marked Private. While Nat was keying the door, Don glanced backwards to where Kay was sitting, the microphone cupped tightly in her hand. She was staring at him with a strained expression on her face, her lovely blue eyes sending out signals that he should have recognized. But he turned away and followed Nat Peters.

The assistant D.A. didn’t see anything except Nat Peters’ broad back as he followed him inside the large, lavishly furnished room that served as office for the owner of the Shell-Aire Cocktail Lounge and Restaurant.

Don sat down across the desk from Peters and watched him push a polished walnut humidor towards him. He shook his head and waited for the restaurant man to light up. Peters didn’t seem to be in any hurry as he slowly expelled a dense cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling, his fingers drumming noisily on the desk top.

“I should call my lawyer, maybe?” he asked.

Don hunched his shoulders, plainly showing his annoyance at the restaurant owner’s casual manner.

Peters noticed the tight lines around his mouth and barked, “You should tell me, young fellow. You should tell me what it is that’s official.”

“You’ve been reading about the investigation on Patello?”

The fat man shrugged. “Who hasn’t?”

Nat Peters was right. All New York was reading about it. Vince Patello, numbers man, gambling czar and slot-machine king, was gangland’s number one pin-up boy and the D.A.’s target for the month. It was suspected that his immunity in court was due to his closeness to someone high up in the political machine. Rumor said it was a judge. But what the newspapers needed was proof — the D.A. needed proof.

“How come you and Patello are like this?” Don crossed two fingers.

Peters grinned. “Me? I’m friends with everybody son.” Don looked disgusted and Nat went on. “In my business, it’s got to be that way. So what’s wrong with it?”

Davis ignored his question and asked one of his own. “How long have you known Judge Manson?”

Nat’s face got white then, except for two small red spots high on his cheek bones.

“You, too, huh?” he muttered. “Some skunk outside the machine starts the word around, then the crucifixion begins. What the hell’s the matter with you guys? The D.A. believe everything he hears, or is it just because he’s going to run for Senator?”

“That’s a long speech, Nat?”

Peters eased his sweating back against the cool firmness of the leather chair. His palms were wet, too.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “a long speech for me.”

“But you meant it, huh?”

“I meant it, yeah.”

The D.A.’s top assistant picked up doggedly where he’d left off.

“You and the judge were kids together, weren’t you, Nat?”

“Everybody knows that.” He spoke angrily. “That ain’t news. We were kids together, boys together, and men together. So what? I’m in the restaurant business and he’s a judge. Everybody knows that. He’s a good judge, too.”

“Yeah.”

Nat’s face split open in a big grin. “Then you don’t think that—”

“When did the judge and Patello meet here last? What night?”

The fat man’s hand came down heavily on the desk.

“Get out!”

Don got up. “If that’s the way you want it.”

The stout man at the desk didn’t move. Only his eyes — and his tongue.

“Trick questions I don’t like. From now on if you got to ask, bring around a little paper and I’ll bring my lawyer. No more for-free answers. Get out!”

The assistant D.A. turned and walked towards the door. Nat Peters still didn’t move. The door came open in Don’s hand and the carefre sounds from outside slithered into the tense atmosphere of the room.

“What side are you on, Nat?”

Peters straightened up and relighted his long Havana.

“My own,” he said in an unusually soft tone of voice. “Strictly my own.”

Nat waited five minutes after Davis left, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. A few minutes later the restaurant-owner opened the door of his office and walked out into the subdued noise of the lounge.

Kay Winters was still holding court up on the platform, interviewing a famous zither player. Next she would play his record and then would come more talk. Suddenly Nat Peters felt hot and tired, his throat parched. He went over to the bar.

“Gimme a drink, Ed.”

“But I thought your stomach—”

Nat’s eyes flashed and so did his heavy fist as he brought it down hard on the bartender’s finger tips.

“I said, gimme a drink!”

Ed needed the job and he sucked in his fingers like a baby, a frightened look in his watery eyes.

“Sure, Mr. Peters, sure,” he squeaked obediently. “Coming right up.”

Nat leaned against the bar again and surveyed his domain. The assistant District Attorney was still there, sitting at a table close to where the blonde disc-jockey was broadcasting. He was alone and looked it, and Nat noticed that Kay Winters could hardly keep her eyes off him.

The bartender set Nat’s drink down on the bar and he picked it up and went over to where Sue Grinnell was sitting. She glanced up at his fat bulk but hardly saw him. She too, had noticed the way Kay was looking at Don, and it disturbed her.

Nat sat down and bobbed his head at the blonde attraction.

“That thing still going on with them?” When there was no answer he commented brusquely, “He’ll get her yet — he sure will.”

Sue’s fingers were bloodless sticks under the table, her eyes cold and set.

“You’re wrong,” she said in a tight voice that didn’t fit her. “That will never be.” Her voice got too loud, “Never!”

Nat’s loose jowls shook gently as his massive head jerked up in unexpected surprise at her tone.

“So how come you hate the guy?” His voice sounded calm but he looked like a man who had just heard some good news.

Sue blinked in the blinding glare of his searching gaze.

“I... I don’t,” she said with unconvincing slowness. “It’s just that... well... she’s too good for him.”

“Nuts,” grunted Nat Peters coarsely. “You still afraid your meal ticket will get married and leave you?”

She almost slapped his face. Instead, she forced herself to pull back on the check reins as she murmured quietly, “Aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“You, too, Mr. Peters. She’s your meal ticket, too.”

He looked annoyed and upset.

“So how come she squawks to the D.A.?” he retaliated. “Huh? Can you answer me that?”

Sue couldn’t because suddeply all the breath had gone out of her and there was a pasty color to her face that made her look very unhealthy.

“What do you mean?” she whispered nervously.

“Listen kid, for the mistakes we make we got to pay — only Vince Patello pays off in a very funny way.”

“I... I don’t understand.”

“No?” He seemed almost gentle in the way he handled her. “For what your gal Kay saw in my office she’s been paid — five hundred extra bucks a week’s she’s been paid.” He shook his head from side to side. “Uh-uh, Patello won’t like this at all.”

There was a lop-sided grin on Sue’s white face. “You’re crazy,” she muttered. “Kay would never do a thing like that. She couldn’t!”

“No?” he stabbed at her.

“How could she?” She was looking past him. “She—” Her jaws snapped shut like a steel trap, the pasty color spreading to her lips. “I don’t believe it,” was all that came out of her.

Nat Peters looked glum. “She don’t believe it,” he mocked. “So how come he knows enough to ask me questions about the judge?” He was looking straight at the assistant D.A. “That one ain’t working on rumor. He acts like a guy who knows something, has maybe a secret witness.”

She put a firm hand on his fat forearm. “Look, Mr. Peters,” she told him slowly. “When Kay walked in on you and the judge and Patello, you all started scurrying around like a room full of mice. But I told you then that she wouldn’t talk and I’m telling you now.”

“Okay,” he admitted testily. “For five hundred a week she hasn’t talked. I just wonder how much it would take to make her open to the D.A.”

Sue spouted angrily, “The D.A. hasn’t got that kind of money.”

Nat took another look at Don’s broad shoulders and remarked, “Maybe it doesn’t take money, huh?” He rocked nervously in his chair. “All they need is a witness who saw the judge together with Patello, and believe me they can take it from there.”

“And you believe me, Mr. Peters. Kay won’t talk. I promise you she won’t.”

Big Nat Peters chewed hard on his inner lip. He was thinking about Vince Patello.

“Kay won’t say a thing, Mr. Peters,” he heard Sue Grinnell saying, and thinking about Vince Patello, Nat was inclined to believe she was right.

Chapter Three Talkie — No Walkie

It was just like always, the people sitting there in the subdued informal light from the many table lamps, watching the blonde disc-jockey doing her nightly stint as if she weren’t going to die. As if she didn’t know she was going to die...

She kept looking at Don Davis; she couldn’t take her eyes off him. There was something almost hypnotic in the way he sat there alone, a small silver cigarette case twirling nervously in his hands, the gaze of his clear brown eyes doing something to the pit of her stomach. Why was he staring like that?

Her chit-chat into the mike was a mechanical thing. She hardly knew what she was saying. Suddenly, she looked down, her eyes tired. Where had the people gone? Where had everybody gone?

She half started to her feet. There was a dull throbbing pain in her head. She saw Don then, saw only Don. Don looking at her, staring at her... She knew suddenly that there was something she should remember.

We’re meant for each other, he had told her once. You and me, Kay. There will never he anybody else for you, never. I won’t let there be...

She stood up slowly, her long limbs fledgling things, untried, the marrow oozing out in a steady stream. Not Don — not him! Don’t let it be him!

She took two steps toward the edge of the platform, her hands fluttering like a bird with a broken wing. A roar of sibilant sounds came at her from below. They were whispering, everybody was whispering. Then she heard a sharp voice at her shoulder. It belonged to Charlie Walp, the program producer.

“What’s wrong, doll? You don’t look so good.”

“Play some records,” she managed to say. “Please, please, I feel sick.”

He started to protest but her white face cut him short.

“Sure, baby. Take it easy for a while, huh?”

She saw him signal something over his shoulder as he moved away. He helped her down those two steps, and there were many anxious faces. See, they loved her, they all loved her. All of them — except one.

Nat Peters was jabbering at her and so was Sue, but it was Don’s strong arm around her waist. The way he was looking at her, she was sure he couldn’t hurt her. He just couldn’t!

“What is it, hon?” said her manager. “What’s the matter? Tell Sue.”

She buzzed around, her red mouth tumbling out words and her white hands stroking nervously at Kay’s pale face.

“Get her to the dressing room,” said Sue, pointing to the rear of the lounge. “I’ve got something to do.” And then she was gone, making furious signs at Charlie Walp up on the platform.

Nat Peters went back to the table and sat down. There was a curious smile on his lips and a row of confused lines around his deep-set eyes. He hardly noticed Don Davis, his arm still tightly around Kay’s soft waist, helping her through the door in the rear of the lounge that was reserved for Kay’s own private dressing room.

Sue didn’t notice either. She was too busy talking earnestly with young Jack Cummings, radio’s newest crooning sensation. Of course he would fill in for Kay. Why not? Didn’t she plug his records?

That accomplished, Sue stood for a moment listening to the singer explain into the mike that it was a pleasure to take over a while for the beautiful blonde disc-jockey. Sue thought of everything.

She kept glancing over her shoulder; there was no sign of Don and it annoyed her. Why hadn’t he come out? She got up and hurried across the lounge. When she opened the door and walked in, Don still had his arm around Kay and he was kissing her. There was tender happiness in her lovely face.

“Excuse me!” There was deep sarcasm in Sue’s brittle voice. “Don’t tell me you fluffed off just for that!”

“Sue!” Kay sounded shocked.

“How do you feel, now?” the redheaded manager asked, and it was only with an effort that she kept her tone even.

“Sue, darling,” Kay breathed. “We’re going to be married. At last, we’re going to be married!”

Don grinned and hugged her to him. “Yeah, you’ll have to find yourself someone else to manage, Sue. Kay is quitting.”

The piece of ice inside Sue broke off into sharp-pointed splinters. She wanted to cry out in protest but she couldn’t. How could she tell Kay Winters that she mustn’t marry him, that she wouldn’t let her marry him? Kay would never understand.

She went over and took Kay by the hand, slowly drawing her away from Don over to the couch. As they sat down she began to talk about the peculiar expression on Kay’s face out there in the lounge, out there at the microphone, and finally she asked directly, “What were you afraid of, Kay? What happened?”

There was no answer but Kay’s stricken face brought terror back into that small, stuffy room.

“What were you afraid of?” Sue kept insisting. “Tell me, hon, I want to help you. I’ve always helped you.”

“Oh. Sue, I want to forget it!” Kay said. “I had almost forgotten it — here with Don.” She turned to him, beseechingly, “Who would want to kill me? Why would anyone want to kill me?”

Don crossed the room and his strong hands took the blonde firmly by the shoulders. “What’s this all about, Kay?” he asked with tense gruffness. He felt her move nervously in his grip and his voice softened caressingly. “Tell me, Kay. You can trust me.”

“Can she? Can she really trust you?” said Sue.

Don straightened up quickly, the red anger glowing in his cheeks like two hot coals. Slowly his hands knotted into tight fists. “Just what do you mean by that, Sue?” he demanded.

“As if you didn’t know!” she shot back at him. “As if—”

“Oh, stop it — stop it, both of you!” Kay broke in frantically. “This is a nightmare. It’s crazy — I’m crazy — to let myself go to pieces this way over a... a... note.” She spoke the word with obvious effort, and having said it she covered her eyes with her hand and sobbed quietly.

Sue was beside her instantly, making soft clucking noises. But it was the assistant District Attorney’s voice she obeyed when she showed them the note — a crumpled piece of paper she took from her purse.

It was a crude thing, the letters cut out from a newspaper and carefully pasted together. It read:

Don held it in front of him, his hand running over the texture of the paper. He acted as if it were something very valuable and at the same time very dangerous.

“When did you get this?” he snapped. “And why didn’t you report it to the police?”

Kay started to answer his question but there was an interruption. Sue was laughing softly.

“What’s so funny!” Don barked

“It’s a gag,” Sue cried. “Don’t you see?” She turned to Kay, her arms extended in emphasis. “One of the boys is playing a joke on you.”

Her voice was tinged with relief but her eyes bore a worried expression. The tip of Don’s tongue darted in and out over his lips.

Kay had stopped sobbing by then, and was staring with wide red-rimmed eyes at her manager, her mouth open in shocked surprise.

“But who would do that to me, Sue? Who?”

“Yes,” Don echoed. “Who?”

The only answer was a vague shrug of Sue’s lovely shoulders.

“What I want to know is why a gag?” Don asked pointedly. “What makes you think this note is a joke? Obviously Kay doesn’t. Why do you?”

“But it must be,” she told him. “Who would want to kill—?” She left it hanging.

“Did anything like this ever happen before, Kay?”

Kay shook her head slowly from side to side, and Sue looked startled. For the first time she looked startled. She hardly heard the soft tapping on the door. It was Kay who said, “Come in.”

Nat Peters looked at them as if he expected something to happen, but wasn’t sure just what.

“You all right, Kay?”

She stood up without answering and walked over to the dressing table, her straight back sagging slightly.

“She’s all right, Mr. Peters,” Sue muttered quickly.

“You don’t say it so good.”

“I’m just fine, Mr. Peters,” Kay chimed in, looking at him over the top of her compact.

“You going back on?” he asked, and when she nodded her head, the owner of the lounge looked pleased.

“No,” snapped Don. “To hell with the ‘show must go on’ routine! I don’t want you out there.” He walked over and stood behind her, one hand resting on her white shoulder.

She shifted uncomfortably. “Let me alone, Don,” she said, and there were stones in her voice.

He let his fingers slide from her. “I don’t want you out there,” he repeated softly, but it was an ill-disguised warning.

Kay turned away from him. “I’ll be there in a few minutes, Mr. Peters,” she said quietly.

“Kay!”

“I must, Don, don’t you see? Those people out there, they paid to—”

“To hell with them. I’m telling you, Kay, I won’t be responsible.”

“So what are you now, an M.D., too?” Peters jibed sarcastically. “What’s this all about?”

“Maybe you’d better not, Kay,” Sue mumbled. “Maybe Don’s right.”

“Look,” broke in Peters, “if you ain’t feeling so good, you don’t have to finish up. I’m no Simon Legree, you know, kid.”

Kay smiled. “I know, Mr. Peters. You’re nice, but I’ll be all right.”

Her eyes sought Don’s and she had an uneasy feeling that there were too many things left unsaid.

Sue stood up as if she were on wires. “And now if you gentlemen will excuse us...”

“Sure, sure,” chattered Peters. “Coming, Davis?”

Don grunted at the restaurant owner and went over and took Kay’s hand in his palm.

Peters hurried out as if he hadn’t seen and Sue busied herself with something on the couch.

“Okay,” he said, “if you must.” He grinned at her and got back a weak smile.

“I must, Don, believe me.”

He shook his head as if he didn’t understand. “Just look at that same table, Kay. I’ll be there — and don’t worry.” He glanced narrowly at Sue. “It’s probably just like she says, anyway — some zany character’s idea of a gag.”

But as he went out of the room, he knew that he had never sounded more unconvincing in his life. The small piece of white paper was a heavy object in his coat pocket. He had lied — he had wanted to lie. The threat to kill Kay Winters was no gag. After all, who should know it better than he — the assistant District Attorney?

For an hour and a half he sat there and wondered at the peculiar code of show business that made them go on as if nothing had happened. There was no doubt about it, Kay was scared. But she was wonderful; she’d never been better. As he listened to the finish of her show, the only tell-tale sign of the terrible fear that gripped at her white throat was a tightening around her small mouth.

As the sound of her theme music filled the lounge of the Shell-Aire Restaurant, Sue went over and sat down next to him. She sighed deeply and it spelled out relief.

“It’s over.”

He looked at her as if she were a hostile witness.

“What makes you think it’s over?”

“What?”

“These things are never over,” he rasped coldly and his chair scraped as he got up to greet Kay

“Take me home, Don,” she murmured. “Please, please.” All the life had suddenly gone out of her and she looked wan. “You don’t mind, Sue?”

Sue shrugged but it was Nat Peters who spoke as he suddenly appeared from behind them.

“Before you go, Kay, baby, can you give me a minute?”

She wilted. “Oh, Mr. Peters!”

“Let it go until tomorrow, can’t you?” said Sue. “She’s tired and so am I.” Kay’s red-headed manager sounded annoyed.

Nat took the disc-jockey firmly by the arm. “It won’t take long,” he insisted.

“All right,” said Kay. “Just a minute though. I’m really dead.” She didn’t appear to notice what she had said but Don did. He noticed it very much.

He started forward with them as they turned to go, but the restaurant man growled, “Sorry, Davis, this is business.”

“Oh,” he said and abruptly sat down.

Kay fingered his shoulder. “Wait,” she murmured, “I’ll be right back,” and moved off with Nat and Sue.

Just before they went into Nat Peters’ private office she glanced over her shoulder at where the assistant District Attorney was sitting. He was watching her, his keen brown eyes burning. She was almost glad when the door closed behind the three of them. There was something about the way Don was looking at her...

She heard Sue’s whispered voice croak, “Patello!” and her own blue orbs caught fire.

Chapter Four Last Broadcast

Vince Patello had stepped from behind the closet and now stood between them and the closed door. His steel-gray suit matched the color of his cold eyes, and the knifelike crease pressed in his trousers was as sharp as the thin line that served as his mouth.

“Which one of you dames has the big yapper?”

“Take it easy, Vince,” said Nat.

“Shut up, fat boy,” he growled.

Nat Peters shut up and Kay got up, and that left just Sue sitting there staring into space.

“Where are you going, doll-face?” Patello shot through his teeth.

Kay ignored him and walked toward the door until Patello reached out. Grabbing her by the arm, he manhandled her to the chair she’d just vacated. She sat down heavily as the flat of his hand shoved roughly into her.

She grunted and Peters said again, “Take it easy, Vince.”

The gambling czar whirled on him. “Take it easy? Take it easy? Are you nuts?” He was sweating profusely all over his furrowed brow. “If these dames talk, I’m done, get it? Done!” He walked toward Kay, his fists doubled up like mallets.

“Tell them, Kay,” screamed Sue, her voice breaking wide open in fright. “Tell them you won’t say anything!”

There was a blank look on the disc-jockey’s face.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean, Sue?”

Vince Patello laughed, only it didn’t sound very pleasant. “Is this dame kidding?”

There was a wise look on Peters’ face. “Wait a minute, Vince, hold it.”

“For how long?”

“Listen, Kay,” said the restaurant owner. “That time you walked in and saw Vince and me closeted with Judge Manson — remember?”

“Sure, she remembers,” broke in the racketeer.

Kay nodded. “I remember. But your business is yours and mine is mine. I told Sue to tell you that then.”

“What?”

“You’ve done a lot for me, Mr. Peters. I owed you something.”

“Then why did you tell Don?” blurted out Sue in a high-pitched voice.

Kay looked surprised. “But I didn’t. You know that, Sue. Why would I tell Don?”

“Yeah!” It was a suspicious grunt that Vince Patello emitted from his open mouth.

“She’s going to marry him,” screamed Sue. “That’s why, that’s why!”

“Sue! What are you saying?”

The gangster went over and slapped Kay hard across the face. She staggered backward, her shaking hand fingering her stinging cheek.

“So that’s it. That’s good enough for me.” He slapped her again and she sank down to her knees, her shaking hands covering her face.

Sue was mumbling, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.”

“Wait a minute,” barked Nat Peters. “This thing ain’t right, Vince. There’s a stink in this somewhere.”

“Yeah,” snarled the racketeer, “but not for long.”

“Look,” reasoned Peters, “why would a gal throw away five hundred a week? Five hundred a week for eight months to shut her mouth; then all of a sudden—” He was thinking furiously.

Kay was looking at her red-headed manager as if she were seeing her for the first time.

“You couldn’t, Sue,” she cried. “Sue, you couldn’t — you didn’t!”

“I got it,” suddenly wheezed fat Nat Peters, sitting down heavily in his huge chair. “Now I got it, Vince. You got the wrong one, Vince. It’s the redhead who’s been taking the dough — and for nothing. You hear, Vince? You’ve been paying off — ain’t that a laugh — and for nothing!”

“What?” he roared.

“Yeah, you been paying five hundred a week to Kay to shut her mouth, only she ain’t been gettin’ it and she ain’t been talkin’ either.”

The gangster looked livid. “You mean the redhead’s been taking me? For five hundred a week, she’s been taking me? Why you lousy little—”

He rolled up to her on the balls of his feet, his fingers clawing into the softness of her beautiful red hair. She groaned as he yanked her to her feet. Then holding her in front of him like a puppet on a string, he smashed her back and forth across the mouth.

Kay tore at him furiously. “Stop it!” she cried. “You’ll kill her. Leave her alone!”

She hit out at him until he had to let go of the redhead and turn his attention to warding off the determined attack of the infuriated blonde.

Nat Peters interfered, then, his huge bulk pinning the gangster against the door.

“Cut it out, you fool,” he said between his teeth. “Enough’s enough.”

“Shut up, Peters!”

“No, no, you’ll spoil everything.”

“Nobody can take Vince Patello for a sucker!” He struggled to get away from the big hands that held him. “Get away, you fat slob,” the gangster spat out, and his hand went into his coat pocket and came out with a gun.

The owner of the Shell-Aire Restaurant felt the hard muzzle of the thirty-eight boring into the wide expanse of his middle.

“For the last time. Peters, get away!” the gangster sang out. “Get away!”

Sue saw the gun, too, and she screamed at Kay to run. In three strides the two girls were at the rear door, Sue pulling desperately at the latch. Vince Patello saw them and tried to push Nat’s bulk away from him.

“You’re a fool, Vince,” Nat Peters was saying when the gun went off. “You’re... a... fool...”

The two girls were outside running frantically in a dark alley when the fat man slowly slid down the long legs of the king of the gambling rackets and fell moaning at his feet.

Vince Patello jumped over the body and rushed for the alley, as behind him came the thundering sound of frightened people hammering furiously on Nat Peters’ office door.

At the far end of the narrow blackened alley, Kay Winters was grinding madly on the starter button of her car.

“Hurry, hurry,” moaned Sue.

Kay’s foot jabbed at the accelerator three times before the motor caught. As she shifted gears and sped around the corner, three shots cracked out in the quiet of the deserted alleyway. There were running footsteps, pounding footsteps, and then silence.

Inside Nat Peters’ office, the body of the restaurant owner was a crumpled thing without life. Outside, sprawled face down on the cobble-stones of the alleyway was Vince Patello, a limp, lifeless hand still reaching for a thirty-eight on the ground beside him.

A small electric sign was flashing intermittently over his body — EXIT — EXIT — while at the foot of the long, dark alley stood Don Davis, a forty-five automatic in his hand, and a queer, almost desperate look on his set features...

They sat up there in the darkened car on the dirt road high above the drive. The night hung silently around them like a heavy velvet curtain. Occasionally a distant automobile winked its lights at them as it passed by without seeing them.

They hadn’t talked. They hadn’t spoken since Kay had driven up there and braked to a gentle stop, facing the silver ribbon of the river far below them.

It was Sue who finally spoke. “Say something, anything — but at least speak to me.”

Kay looked at her red-headed manager without seeming to see her. It was as though she were talking to the river.

“I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.”

“Maybe you don’t want to.”

Kay shook her head sadly. “No, that isn’t it, Sue. I want to, believe me. But... Sue, how could you do a thing like that!” It ripped away from her like a sharp pain.

“Why? Since when is an extra five hundred a week hard to take? What do you want now, half of it?”

“Sue!”

“It’s fifty-fifty, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?”

“If it was money you wanted, why didn’t you ask me? What’s mine is yours. You knew that, Sue.”

“I hate you!” the redhead screamed suddenly. “I’m glad I can say it at last. I hate you — I hate you!”

It was like a heavy fist pounding into the pit of her stomach. Suddenly Kay felt ill. She reached for the ignition switch but Sue’s hand stopped her. It was cold, clammy. Kay felt the tiny rivulets of perspiration running down her own back. She leaned against the nylon seat cover; it was very hard to breathe.

“For two years I’ve worked and slaved for you,” ranted the redhead. “For what? It’s you they talk about — the great Kay Winters, the wonderful Kay Winters. What about me? What do they say about me?”

“Sue, for heaven’s sake, Sue!”

The redhead was laughing now, peals of high-pitched, uncontrolled laughter.

“The great Kay Winters, huh? Well, what will they say now!”

She ripped open her pocketbook and there was something in her hand — something that showed hard and black and ugly... Its cold muzzle pointed right at the disc-jockey.

“Sue! Oh no!”

Sue was still laughing. “I hope you suffered tonight. I meant it to be that way.”

“No, don’t do it, Sue. Please don’t do it!”

“I sent that note, Kay. But I’m not going to kill you.” Sue chuckled violently. “It’s Vince Patello; he’s going to do it. Vince Patello will do it.” She laughed out loud then, her head bobbing like a cork. But her hand was steady; it was almost too steady. “He killed Nat Peters tonight, and he’ll kill you. When they find you, I’ll swear that he did it. I’ll swear that he did it.”

“Sue, Sue.” Kay’s voice was quiet, gentle, like the soothing sound of running water high in the mountains. “You’re sick. Let me help you—”

“No! You’re going to die! Drive. Go on, drive!”

Sue didn’t want to do it there. There was still time — time... Time for what, Kay didn’t know, but she realized that her only chance lay in complete obedience.

She started the car and drove down by the river and then along the Parkway. Faster and faster she went, with Sue sitting next to her like a cold, marble statue urging her on to do something she didn’t want to.

The redhead was laughing again, the frightening sound of it bubbling from her lips in a deadly spray, and Kay took her last desperate chance. She pressed her foot to the board, and as the car hurtled forward like a live thing, she jammed on the brake with all the strength she had in her supple young body.

The tires screamed in agony as they wore themselves out on the hard concrete roadway. Kay felt the steering wheel ram into the softness of her body. There was a loud cracking sound as Sue’s head hit the dashboard with terrible force. The gun went off, spitting red flame into the redhead’s middle, and Kay felt the car lurch to one side. Her ears were filled with noise and her eyes with light, flashing, blinding light. And then there was blackness — nothing but the complete blackness of unconsciousness...

It was several months later, when Kay was out of the hospital, that Don Davis was asked again to go to Albany. This time he took Kay with him as his bride. He took her because she wanted to go and because they never could get her in front of a microphone again. There was something about mike fright that got her.