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

It was murder in the mail for Private-Eye Joey Graham when his boss Rex Sackler nobly gave up the ten-G reward.

Chapter One Conscience Money

During the major part of my professional life, my salary has been paid and determined by Rex Sackler. What few raises I have gained have never been more than three dollars at a time and have been achieved only by dint of wearisome argument, bluster and minor blackmail.

However, on this particular Monday morning my bargaining position had been immeasurably strengthened. I was about to buttress my financial position at Sackler’s expense and for the first time in my life I did not fear the outcome of a monetary joust with the most niggardly man this side of Aberdeen.

I sang in my shower that morning; I whistled a lilting melody as I shaved. Of necessity I forsook music as I consumed my bacon and eggs. And after a second cup of coffee I headed for the office on springy feet.

Sackler was already at his desk as I entered our shabby suite. I gave him my heartiest ‘good morning’ and laid my paper on his desk. He grunted and snatched it up.

Several years ago he had pointed out to me, at some length, that it was foolish for each of us to toss a nickel away each morning for a paper. After all, he was in no great hurry to acquaint himself with the news of the world. He could contain himself until such time as I had arrived and handed over the journal which I had purchased from my meager salary.

As I crossed the room to my own desk, Sackler ran his long white fingers through his black hair, buried his corvine nose in the editorial page. I leaned back in my chair, put my feet on the scarred blotter and whistled a happy lay.

Sackler took his nose out of the paper and frowned. “Do you have to make that ghastly noise, Joey?”

“I am young,” I said. “I am exuberant. The sap of life courses through my veins.”

He made an unpleasant guttural sound. “You look as if you’ve come into money.”

“Ah,” I said, “you anticipate me. I’m going to come into money.”

“Where are you going to get it?”

“Probably from you.”

He assumed an expression of suspicion and pain.

“Or,” I added, “from Ralph Owens.”

He winced. For years Sackler had never faced a rival in the field of private investigation. Six months ago, Owens, a police lieutenant with a college degree had quit the force and gone into business on his own. He was a bright lad with connections. Certainly his income was not a fifth of Sackler’s, but Rex considered that Owens was snatching the bread out of his mouth.

He pulled himself together. He said in a strained voice, “What do you mean?”

“I saw Owens Saturday night. He offered me a job. Twenty-five percent more than you pay me. Plus a cut on rewards and big fees.”

That statement was no more than two-thirds true. Owens had offered me a job. He had offered me a slight percentage of the fees. But the salary was the same as I drew now. However, I saw no point in being too literal.

Sackler said, “Judas!” He buried his face in his hands and gave the general impression that my betrayal was more than he could bear.

I knew better. I did not doubt that he was suffering. But I know quite well that his agony was engendered by the fact that I was conducting an assault, upon his bank account.

In spite of the fact that his income ran well into five figures, he dwelt in a shabby, furnished room on the upper West side. He possessed three frayed suits. His only hat was a shapeless blob of felt.

His meals were consumed in a coffee pot which prepared all its food in a lard encrusted frying pan. His annual expense for amusement and miscellaneous was nil.

Each Wednesday he paid me what we laughingly called a salary; then devised various sure-thing gambling games in order to win it back. He succeeded more often than not.

His head was still bowed in sorrow at my perfidy when the door opened and Campbell Parry walked in. Of course, I didn’t know his name then.

He was a short man of middle age. His hair was graying and he wore a pair of gold rimmed glasses. His eyes were diluted blue, his chin weak and his manner deferential. He coughed quietly and Sackler took his head out of his hands.

Parry said, “Mr. Sackler, I have a small commission for you, if you will accept it.”

Sackler stared at him. His nostrils twitched as if he were smelling money, which as a matter of fact he was. It was then that Parry told us his name and sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair by Sackler’s desk.

“It is a small matter,” he said. “But I am willing to pay you five hundred dollars for some advice which you can give me in less than fifteen minutes.”

The melancholy fled Sackler’s face. I frowned and mentally kicked myself for not having insisted on a percentage of fees before Parry had come in.

“Of course,” said Sackler, beaming. “Of course. Any advice at all which my humble talent may produce is yours.”

“Well,” said Parry, “I want to go away. The question is where.”

“Virginia Beach,” I said. “And the suggestion is free.”

Parry said, “You do not understand. I don’t want to go away for a vacation. I want to go away forever.”

Even Sackler seemed puzzled now. Parry sighed.

“Look,” he said. “I have a wife and a son. I also have a monotonous job as an executive with a trucking company. I live in the suburbs, which bores me. My wife nags constantly. In short, I’m sick of life — at least the kind of a life I lead. I want to start all over again. From scratch.”

Sackler nodded. “In other words you want to run away from your wife and family.”

Parry nodded emphatically. “And my job and my home and the dull bridge and cocktail parties.”

I stared at him incredulously. If he wanted to scram why didn’t he just do it? Why offer Sackler five hundred bucks to tell him where to go? I lit a cigarette and said as much.

Parry shook his head at me. “It’s not that easy,” he said. “I’ve read several articles lately. Not only is the Missing Persons Bureau always keeping an eye out for escaping husbands but there are several private agencies who specialize in the same thing. I’ve heard they’re most efficient.”

Understanding was now in Sackler’s game. “Ah,” he said, “you want me to tell you how to avoid being caught, how to keep away from the police and the private agencies your wife will employ?”

“Exactly,” said Parry. “You, as a detective, should know all the methods used by such agencies. You can tell me how to keep out of their way.”

Sackler looked like a child who has fallen into an ice cream freezer. There may be simpler ways of making five hundred dollars but I had never heard of them. I tried to throw a monkey wrench into the proceedings.

“Just scram,” I said. “As far as possible. Keep out of trouble with the coppers and it’s ten to one no one will ever find you.”

Sackler glared at me, then, remembering he had an audience, adopted a superior and pitying smile.

“That sort of advice will lose us all our clients, Joey,” he said. He turned to Parry. “This is the proper procedure. First, select a town with a population of about a hundred thousand. In a small place the inhabitants are too inquisitive. Second communicate with no one. No one at all. Third, do you have any hobbies or particular forms of amusement?”

Parry considered this for a moment. “Well,” he said at last, “I’m fond of bowling and I’m nuts about chop suey.”

“Not any longer,” said Sackler. “Your wife will doubtless furnish that information. They’ll look for you in the alleys and the chop suey joints. You’ll give up both. They’ll also check the trucking companies to see if you’ve applied for a job since that’s your line of business. You must take up something else. Is that clear?”

This was all obvious enough to me but Parry nodded gratefully as if he thought he was getting a bargain for his five hundred bucks.

“That’s about all,” said Sackler, “except my advice to take as much cash with you as possible. It may take a little while to get yourself started in a new line.”

Parry shook his head. “I’m taking no cash at all — or very little. I have about thirty thousand dollars in savings but I’m leaving that behind for my family.”

“Your wife has no money of her own?”

“Oh, yes. Her family’s quite wealthy. She has plenty.”

Sackler looked blank. That kind of a deal baffled him. Parry went on. “They don’t really need my cash but I’m leaving it as a sort of — well, conscience money. I’m going to start right from the bottom.”

Sackler still looked baffled. But as Parry rose, withdrew his wallet and laid five new hundred dollar bills on the desk a smile wreathed his face.

“Thank you,” said Parry. He put on his hat and left the room. I regarded Sackler with outrage.

“You are Fortune’s fool,” I said bitterly. “People actually track you down and thrust money into your pocket.”

He stowed away the bills and looked at me smugly. “For services rendered,” he said. “The little guy ought to keep well under cover if he does what I tell him. That is, unless he had a girl.”

“A girl?”

“Sure. Lots of these runaway husbands have girls they leave behind them who plan to join them later. That’s death. Because they’ll write. They’ll send the girl their address. Either some smart dick’ll steal the letter, or the girl, herself will talk. Women do, you know.”

I nodded. I wasn’t particularly interested in Campbell Parry. I said, “We shall now revert to the subject which was under discussion before your client came in.”

“What was that again, Joey?”

“Cash. Whether I go over to Owens or whether you pay me a sum approaching my worth.”

Now he looked pained again. “Listen,” he said. “I pay you a regular salary, Joey. I pay it whether we have a case or not; whether we work or not. Sometimes it puts me sorely out of pocket. I wish I drew a regular salary as you do.”

He sounded convincing. I said, “All right, I’ll forego the salary raise but I want a percentage on all your fees and rewards.”

“How much?”

“Ten per cent.”

He closed his eyes and shuddered. I followed it up with what I thought was a magnanimous offer.

“Moreover,” I said, “if I stumble across a client or if I solve a case all by myself, I’ll give you ten percent of any rewards I get.”

He wasn’t enthusiastic. Considering the fact that I had never brought in a rich client, that I had never cleaned up a case by myself, I hadn’t exactly expected him to be.

“Of course,” I said, bluffing cautiously, “if you don’t feel you can afford it, I can always go over to Owens.”

He looked at me as if he’d caught me stealing a Bible. “Go away,” he said. “Let me think about it. You’re doing a terrible thing to me and I must think it over. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Let me sleep on it.”

I said, “That’s fair enough,” and put my hat on prepartory to going to lunch. “You sleep on it.”

But knowing what the idea of parting with dough did to his emotions I knew he was in for an insomniac night.

Chapter Two “Too Damned Efficient”

On the following morning I was drinking my coffee and munching a slice of toast as I opened the paper. I ran a careless eye across the front page. Then a headline jumped at me. I blinked, put down my cup and proceeded to read.

When I had finished the story, I threw back my head and howled with joyous laughter. I paid the check without finishing my breakfast and ran all the way to the office.

Sackler was at his desk, rolling a cigarette with inexpert fingers, when I arrived, breathless. He looked up at me with some distaste and said, “Must you pant all over my desk at this hour in the morning? I never knew you to be so assiduous about getting here on time.”

“Listen,” I said. “You remember Parry yesterday? You told him how to hide out?”

“Naturally”

“Could you find him yourself?”

“Of course not. If he does as I told him, not even I can find him. When I give five hundred dollars worth of advice, it takes.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “Especially considering that there’s a ten grand reward for Parry’s capture.”

His eyes bugged and his jaw fell. “What are you talking about?”

“Parry. He killed his wife last night, then scrammed. His father-in-law has offered ten thousand bucks for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the killer.”

“You’re screwey,” said Sackler without conviction.

“Then so’s the paper,” I said tossing it on his desk. “Here, read it.”

He grabbed the paper and his startled eyes bored into the page. I crossed to my own desk, tilted back in my chair and once again filled the atmosphere with hysterical hilarity.

The story he was reading with bugging eyes was simple and to the point. It stated baldly that Mrs. Parry had been found in her bedroom neatly stabbed through the heart and that her husband was missing.

Friends had announced to the police that she and her husband had got along none too well in recent years and there was a four state alarm out for yesterday’s client, Mr. Campbell Parry. In addition, Mrs. Parry’s father was offering ten G’s cash for any information leading to the apprehension and conviction of the killer.

Sackler hurled the newspaper to the floor and registered a typical reaction.

“I’m out nine thousand, five hundred dollars,” he said bitterly.

“How do you figure that?”

“If I wasn’t so damned efficient, if I hadn’t told him how to hide himself so well, I could find him. I could claim the dough the old man is offering.”

He paced the floor, running his long fingers through his dark black hair. He was thinking of money, money which had eluded his sticky fingers and he was suffering. I watched him, not without enjoyment.

He came suddenly to a halt. His brow brightened somewhat as he said, “Well, if the old guy’s offering a reward, I suppose anyone can get into the act. The coppers won’t have an exclusive on the case. I call him and offer my talents.”

He thumbed through the phone book, put through a call and spoke briefly. Evidently the answer was satisfactory since his face registered relief when he hung up.

He picked up his shapeless hat and said, “We’re working, Joey. Old man Parry wants all the help he can get. Let’s go down to the Parry house and see if we can pick up anything.”

I sat firmly in my chair. I said, “I have something to discuss with you first.”

“It can wait, can’t it?” he said testily. “There’s money involved here.”

“There is,” I agreed. “You were to sleep on a certain proposition I made you yesterday.”

“Afterwards,” he said, annoyed. “Business first. There’s ten thousand bucks in this case.”

“Ten percent of which is mine.”

“We’ll talk about it later, Joey. Come on.”

“No,” I said. I stood up. “Here is my last, my final offer. My salary remains the same. But starting right now, I get ten percent of all fees if you break the case. If I break it, I get ninety percent, you get the ten.”

He stared at me.

“When,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “did you ever crack a case without my help?”

I thought it politic not to answer that. I said, “For instance if you find Parry and bring him back, you get nine G’s. I get one. If I find him I get the nine thousand, you get the one.

“You’re nuts, Joey. First you never solved a case in your life. I solve them all. Why should I give you ten percent?”

I shrugged and essayed to look nonchalant. “You forget Owens has offered me a job.”

“Then take it,” he snapped. “I’m going up to the Parry house.”

I hadn’t expected this and was taken somewhat by surprise. But I still held the top card in the deck. I took a deep breath and played it.

“What would your old pal, Inspector Wolfe, at Headquarters say; what would every paper in town say; what would the whole damned city say if they knew that Rex Sackler took a five hundred buck fee from a killer to tell him where to hide?”

He looked at me, stricken. He said, “Traitor!

“Joey,” he said in a voice which had a tremor in it, “you wouldn’t do it.”

“The hell I wouldn’t.”

He stood for a long silent moment. Then he gave up like a man giving up his right arm. He said, “All right, Joey. I shall do as you say. But the memory of this perfidy shall bow my back until the day I die.”

“Okay with me,” I said cheerfully. “As long as I get my ten percent.”

I put on my hat and we went down to the street en route to the Parry house. Naturally, he sneaked out of the taxi first and stuck me with the bill but I was so elated with the sharp bargain I had driven I didn’t care.

The Parry domicile was a neat semi-Colonial job on the Nassau county border. There was a copper at the gate who made no move to stop us as we went by. The heavy front door was open. I thrust my head around the jamb and the first person I saw was Inspector Wolfe of the Homicide squad. He saw me, too, and groaned. He said, “I suppose Sackler’s with you.”

I nodded brightly. Wolfe groaned again. “I might have known publication of a reward would be bringing him running.”

Sackler pushed past me and confronted Wolfe.

“Reward!” he said with fine contempt. “I am here to do my duty as a citizen. To bring a killer to justice. If there’s any money involved it’s a mere byproduct.”

Wolfe looked as skeptical as I did.

“Now,” said Sackler, “have the police discovered anything of any importance?”

“There’s nothing to discover,” said Wolfe, “except Parry. The thing’s cut and dried. Parry and his wife didn’t get along. So he pushed a carving knife into her, grabbed what dough there was in the house and scrammed. The only problem is to find Parry. If you do that before us, I suppose you can claim the reward.”

It seemed to me that this was a fair and accurate statement of affairs. Sackler, however, seemed skeptical. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “You don’t mind my looking over the house?”

“No,” said Wolfe. “But I assure you Parry’s not here. And that’s all we’re looking for in this case.”

Sackler shrugged again and walked past Wolfe into an elaborately furnished living room. I tagged along behind him. There, seated in an arm chair at the far end of the room, smoking an exceedingly nervous cigar, was a portly man of middle age. His hair was graying and sparse. Tortoise-shell glasses gave him an owl-like expression. He stood up as we entered and looked at us inquiringly.

Sackler announced his name and mission. The portly man said, “I’ve heard of you. I hope you can find that dirty, little killer.”

Sackler said, “You mean Campbell Parry?”

The portly man regarded him curiously. “Of course, I mean Parry. Who else?”

“I don’t know,” said Sackler. “I’ve made no investigation yet.”

The other grunted. He said, “My name is Franklin. Harry Franklin. I’m Mrs. Parry’s business advisor, investment counsellor. She never should have married that miserable little man. He was only after her money.”

“Ah,” said Sackler, “she had more than he did, eh?”

“He had nothing save his salary.”

Sackler helped himself to a cigarette from a silver box on a taboret. He inhaled gratefully as if relishing the fact that the smoke was free.

He said, “Are there any suspects besides Parry?”

Franklin looked at him as if he were listening to a half-wit. “How could there be?” he exploded. “The case is cut and dried. No one was here last night, save an old servant, the Parry’s son and Parry himself. The boy’s only sixteen years old and a bit of a sissy. He wouldn’t murder a mouse.”

Sackler seemed taken aback at the vehemence of Franklin’s speech. He said, “I think I’ll take a look at the room where the body was found. Upstairs, isn’t it?”

“Second door on your left,” said Franklin. He sat down again and puffed nervously at his cigar. Sackler headed for the stairs with me at his heels.

But before we got to the second door on the left, we naturally enough, passed the first door on the left. It was open. Inside the room, a woman, extremely well dressed, about thirty-five, sat on the edge of a bed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Standing over her, futilely attempting consolation, was a pale-faced lad of sixteen.

Sackler paused in the doorway, then entered. He said courteously, “I just spoke to the deceased’s father at his office. He engaged my services. May I ask if you can tell me anything which may help in solving this murder?”

The woman took the handkerchief from her face and looked up at us. Her hair was red and her face was striking. All in all she was a beautiful woman.

She said in a harsh, flat voice, “I can tell you nothing, save that I wish I were dead instead of Agatha Parry.”

The boy said quickly, “This is Mrs. Abbott. Mrs. Robert Abbott. She was mother’s best friend. She’s all upset.”

There was a tremor in his voice and a dazed expression in his eye which indicated that he was quite upset, too.

“Then, you,” I said, “are young Parry?”

The boy nodded. “Arthur Parry.” He paused for a moment, then his voice broke and he said, “How, how could dad have done a thing like this?”

The Abbott woman uttered something between a cry and a sob and buried her face once more in her handkerchief. Sackler turned to me and spread his palms upward.

“Well,” he said, “let’s take a look at the place where they found the body.”

The Parry bedroom was in a state of mild chaos. Twin beds thrust themselves out from the far wall. One of them had been slept in; the other was still made. A bureau stood at one side of the room. Its drawers had been pulled out. Their contents was scattered all over the floor. Sackler looked around the room, sighed and walked about slowly.

He did this for some five minutes. Whether he was thinking or looking for something I didn’t know. I did know that I was rather bored and considered he was wasting time. The only point in the whole case was to find the missing Parry. It was a cinch that he wasn’t in this bedroom.

I got bored. I wandered idly out into the hall. I could still hear sounds of faint sobbing coming from the next room. I strolled along and peered around the doorway. The Abbott woman’s face remained in her handkerchief. Her shoulders shook convulsively. Young Parry stood at her side, obviously uncomfortable.

He patted her tentatively on the shoulder. He said, “Try not to cry so much, please. Let’s try to remember that mother is in heaven.”

The woman took her face from the handkerchief. She looked at the boy and it seemed to me that there was red rage in her eyes. She said in a low, hoarse voice, “You fool. You utter damned fool.”

The boy blinked and blushed. Mrs. Abbott opened her bag, withdrew a cigarette case. I pulled my head back and groped in my pocket for a cigarette of my own. I furrowed my brow. The Graham brain went into action. I was gestating one hell of an idea.

A little later Sackler emerged from the bedroom. He didn’t look happy and he didn’t answer me when I inquired if he’d discovered anything. He walked silently down the stairs.

Wolfe was still in the hallway sitting by the telephone. Sackler halted before him. He said, “What’s all that disorder in the bedroom? Who frisked the joint?”

“Parry. Obviously. Before he scrammed.”

“Why obviously?”

“He needed dough. It figures easily enough. He had a fight with her. He killed her. He needed cash to make a getaway. So he went through his wife’s bureau looking for money. Or maybe he took her jewels. We’re trying to check on that now.”

Judging from the expression on Sackler’s face this theory didn’t impress him much. He grunted and went out into the street. We returned to the office where we spent a quiet afternoon.

Sackler sat brooding at his desk. I didn’t know whether he was actually trying to figure where Parry might be or brooding about the fact that he couldn’t get his hands on the ten G’s reward money.

Anyway, I wasn’t too interested. I was busily engaged on a mastermind of my own. When I’d forced Sackler to agree to pay me ninety percent of the fee earned on a case which I broke myself, I never had any idea of collecting. My principal aim had been to cut myself in for the ten percent on the items Sackler cracked himself.

But now I had an idea. I knew something Sackler didn’t know. Something which might well lead me to Parry’s trail. Something which would toss the whole case in my own little lap. The concept of this happening, of me holding on to nine grand and handing Sackler ten percent was the most beautiful thought I’d had in years.

Sackler hadn’t heard what the Abbott dame had said to Arthur Parry; he hadn’t seen her face when she’d said it. But I had and it impressed me. It convinced me that whatever she may have been weeping about it wasn’t her dead pal, Agatha Parry.

And I recalled something else. Only yesterday Sackler had said that Parry would probably be found if he didn’t have a girl, that all these runaways who had girls wrote to them, sent them addresses.

I began adding two and two like mad. After a while I came up with a sum.

If the Abbott woman had not been weeping for her old pal, Agatha Parry, who had she been upset about? Parry, himself? It certainly figured that way. And if she was weeping about Parry, it followed that she was fond of him. And fond seemed a mild word. Suppose that Parry intended to send for her after he’d lammed?

Well, Sackler, himself, had given me the answer to that one. It meant that Parry would keep in touch with her, that he’d send her his address. And if I could get that address it would put nine G’s in my pocket and break Sackler’s avaricious little heart.

I left the office early, went home to my furnished room, lay down on the bed and summoned every brain cell into action. As I reconstructed what had happened it all became clear.

Parry, doubtless, had decided to leave his wife, then send for the Abbott woman. He had consulted Sackler to make sure Mrs. Parry wouldn’t be able to track him down. Somehow, his wife had learned of his plans at the last minute, they’d quarrelled, and he’d killed her. The Abbott dame was upset because Parry was a murderer, not because Agatha Parry was dead. It figured perfectly. And if I could somehow get Campbell Parry’s address from La Abbott I was in.

I got off the bed and dressed myself in my best clothes. I decided to call on Abbott, tell her what I knew, point out the coppers would surely get Parry sooner or later and it would be much better for all concerned if he surrendered to me personally. I could pretend an influence in the D.A.’s office which I didn’t have and swear I could fix it so he could cop a plea.

I went out into the night, looked up Abbott’s address in the phone book and climbed down into the subway.

An hour later, I returned home disconsolately. I had got exactly nowhere. A fat and formidable maid had opened the door of the Abbott’s apartment. She viewed me with no enthusiasm whatever and informed me that Mrs. Abbott was in bed and unwell, that she would see no one at all.

My argument that my visit was a matter of life, death and several other vital things got me nothing. I considered bribing the maid to let me see Abbott’s mail before she got it, but one look at her grim, forbidding face forced me to discard that brilliant idea.

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.

Now, Sackler never had been Congressional Medal material. I had seen him with a gun on him before and his conduct had not been exactly courageous. However, this time he met the hood’s eye and failed to holler for help.

The hood said, “I’m Spike Sligo. Maybe you never heard of me in the East. But where I come from guys know better than to argue with me.”

Sackler said, with astonishing calm, “To what do I owe the honor of the visit, Mr. Sligo?”

“I come here to talk business.”

I kept looking at the guy. I was certain I’d seen him somewhere. But there was nothing familiar about either his voice or his accent.

“Go ahead,” said Sackler. “Talk.”

Sligo balanced his automatic on his knee. Idly he put a hand in his vest pocket and produced a silver dollar. He spun it nonchalantly, caught it and replaced it in his pocket.

“I hear,” he said, “that you’re a guy who is willing to pick up a fast buck.”

I blinked with annoyance. Was it possible that once again someone was going to toss a bundle of money into Sackler’s emaciated lap?

“You’re working on this Parry case,” said Sligo. “Trying to pick up that ten G reward. Well, I’m here to offer you eleven G’s.”

“For what?”

“To lay off. Old man Parry offers you ten to work on the case. I offer you eleven to lay off. More dough and less work. What do you say?”

I squirmed in my seat. This I didn’t like. Sackler wasn’t even close to collecting the reward and now this joker was offering him even more dough to quit the case.

Sackler said, “This is interesting. When and how do I collect?”

“We’ll wait a week,” said Sligo. “If you don’t do nothing more in the case, you’ll get the dough. In a plain envelope through the mail.”

“Mailed from where?”

Sligo grinned. “Not New York. From out of town. That’s all I can tell you. I guess you can figure it out.”

Even I was smart enough to figure it out. Parry, apparently, had heard that Sackler was tracking him down. Parry, it seemed, didn’t have much fear of the police department but, as was demonstrated by his original visit, had an exceedingly high opinion of Sackler. Rex had told him how to hide and he was scared that Rex might be able to find out where he was hiding.

So he’d sent in this hood to make a deal. Even the reason for his picking a guy like Sligo was obvious. Sackler might have held an ordinary citizen for the coppers to work over, after he’d made such a deal. But you couldn’t very well hold a guy who was holding a gun on you.

“Well,” said Sackler, “it sounds reasonable to me. Go back and tell your principal I’m waiting for the money.” Sligo stood up. “Good. You’ll get it in a week.” He backed toward the door still keeping his automatic in front of him. “By the way, don’t get any funny ideas of chasing after me. Stay right where you are for ten minutes after I leave. I may be right outside the door ready to blast you if you come out before then. Well, so long, bozos.”

Again he took the silver dollar from his vest pocket and tossed it nonchalantly in the air before he opened the door. It slammed behind him.

I looked at Sackler and said, “Are you really going to take that dough?”

He shook his head. “It’s damned dubious dough, Joey. And even if they send it, it won’t pay in the long run. I can do better solving cases than laying off them. I can see a buck under my nose easily enough. But I can also see two several furlongs away.”

“Then you’re still working on the case?”

“I’m still working on it.” He stood up and reached for his disgraceful hat. “As a matter of fact I’m working on it all day. I have some calls to make and I won’t be back. You take care of the office. Close up.”

He went out of the office leaving me once again to my own unsolved problem.

Chapter Three Illegal Ethics

Not only did I have to dig up an idea but I had to dig it up fast. Wolfe with all the power of all the coppers in the country behind him was going to find Parry sooner or later and probably sooner. If I wanted to grab the reward I had to move fast. I lit a cigarette and went into mental action again.

An hour later I thought of something. It wasn’t terrific, true, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. I would write La Abbott a letter. I put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and went to work.

Now, I am by no means a great writer. But for nine G’s I had to be eloquent; I had to sweat.

First, I told the Abbott woman that no one save myself realized that she had been in love with Parry. I threw in a paragraph expressing deep sympathy with her position. I mentioned one’s civic duty. I pointed out that sooner or later the coppers were bound to pick Parry up. I lied about my connections with the D.A. and guaranteed that if Parry was to surrender to me, I’d see to it he faced no worse a charge than second degree murder.

It took me three hours to write a thousand words. When it was done I wasn’t quite satisfied with it but it was the best I could do. I sealed it in an envelope, stamped it and dropped it in the hall mail chute.

When I went home that night I felt relieved. Now the thing was out of my hands. If my letter worked, okay, it worked. If it didn’t, I was licked.

Sackler didn’t come in at all the following morning. I kept the vigil myself, nervously wondering if my all out literary effort would bear fruit.

Shortly after lunch Sackler arrived, grunted at me and sat down at his desk. I was in no mood for conversation and, apparently, neither was he. We sat in silence until the 3:00 o’clock call of the postman.

He tossed some letters on Sackler’s desk and announced, “Special delivery for Joseph Graham.”

I sprang up and signed for it. I ripped open a violet scented, purple envelope with trembling fingers. There was a single sheet of paper inside. It bore a street address followed by two words: Gary, Indiana.

My heart leaped. Obviously, my missive to Abbott had worked. In my hand I held the address of Campbell Parry. I also held nine tenths of ten thousand dollars.

With an effort I kept a dead pan. I didn’t want Sackler to suspect anything. I walked calmly back to my desk. Sackler said, “What is it, Joey? Anything important?”

I shook my head. “Dame I know. Always bothering me. Can’t seem to get rid of her.”

He nodded. He looked at me thoughtfully. “Joey, I’m not sure I believe you. I think you’re doing your own investigation on this Parry thing. I think you’ve got something.”

“Well, suppose I have?”

“If you really have,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to take unfair advantage of you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He scratched his head. He said, “If you’ve really got this thing figured I’m willing to waive my ten percent.”

“Aren’t you getting a little out of character?” I asked him suspiciously.

“Maybe. I know you think I’d sell my mother for a buck. But you never broke a case single handed before. If you can do it now, I think you’re entitled to the entire reward.”

This speech from Sackler was highly suspicious. However, I turned it over in my mind I couldn’t figure how I could possibly lose anything. I had Parry in my pocket. No one could take that away from me. All I had to do was to see Wolfe and tell him that I knew where Parry was. If Sackler waived his ten percent, well, it was just another grand in my pocket.

“All right,” I said. “So you waive. I accept the waiver.”

“Okay,” said Sackler. “Then our previous agreement is wiped out, cancelled, eh?”

That should have warned me. But with Parry’s address in my pocket I was riding too high to scent danger. I said, “It’s off. Cancelled. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some business downtown.”

“How long will it take you?”

“About an hour.”

He scribbled something on a piece of paper. “When you’ve finished your business, will you please meet me at this address?”

I took the paper, said, “Okay,” and headed for the door. Sackler called after me, “Oh, you might get in touch with Inspector Wolfe and bring him along with you.”

Since I was going to see Wolfe and he wasn’t supposed to know about it, I glanced at him sharply over my shoulder. He was rolling a cigarette and wearing a bland expression. I figured it was sheer coincidence. I went out into the hall and pressed the elevator button.

Wolfe, who disliked Sackler with the same passion that he disliked arsenic, wasn’t too happy to see me. He looked up from a sheaf of papers in his hand and said, “Well, what’s old Scrooge want now?”

“Nothing,” I said, “I’m working on my own.”

“Doing what?”

“Making ten grand out of which Sackler gets exactly nothing.”

That interested him. “How’s that?” he asked.

I told him of my original deal with Sackler and how it had just been canceled at Sackler’s request. Wolfe was unimpressed.

“That won’t do you much good. We don’t have a line on Perry yet. Maybe Sackler will beat us to it. But you ain’t in the same class as him, Joey. What chance have you got?”

I grinned smugly. “I don’t know about that,” I said, “I have a piece of paper in my pocket which may interest you?”

“Go on.”

“Written on that piece of paper is Parry’s present address.”

He stared at me and held out his hand.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “The reward is all mine?”

“Every nickel of it,” he said. “Give me that paper.”

I handed it over to him and explained my theory and told him of the letter I’d written to the Abbott woman. Wolfe listened, grinning. Then he grabbed a phone and instructed someone to call the Gary cop immediately. He hung up and said, “And Rex doesn’t get a cent of this dough?”

“Not a cent.”

We looked at each other. We smiled broadly. Then we broke into hearty laughter. It wasn’t every day that Rex Sackler talked himself out of dough.

We waited for some forty-five minutes. Then a message came in from Gary that Parry had been picked up and announced he would waive extradition proceedings. Wolfe and I congratulated each other, then set out for the address Sackler had given me.

Somewhat to my surprise I found the apartment at whose door we knocked was that of Harry Franklin. A servant admitted us, ushered us to the living room where we found Sackler smoking one of Franklin’s fat cigars and conversing amiably with his host.

Wolfe grinned happily at Sackler.

“Well, Rex,” he said. “It’s taken one hell of a long time but at last Joey’s got his hand on a buck before you.”

Sackler raised his eyebrows. “What buck are you referring to?”

“The ten grand reward for Agatha Parry’s killer. We got Parry.”

Rather to my surprise Sackler didn’t wince. He regarded us blandly and said, “And what the devil do you want Parry for?”

“Murder, of course,” said Wolfe. “You been looking for him, I’ve been looking for him, but Joey found him all right.”

“Well,” said Sackler, “I hope Joey’s happy with him. I found him rather dull myself.”

I was a little taken aback. Upon receipt of our news I had expected Sackler to beat his breast, tear his hair and call upon heaven to witness the injustice I had done him. But he was taking it as calmly as a weather report.

Franklin stood up. “I guess I should congratulate you,” he said to me. “I’m glad Parry will be brought to justice. I think it was pretty smart of you to find him.”

“So do I,” I said modestly.

Sackler sighed and puffed deeply on his cigar. Wolfe looked at him, nettled. “You’re a bum sport, Rex,” he said. “You should congratulate Joey, too.”

“Why?”

“He’s tracked down a killer and earned a ten grand reward.”

“He hasn’t,” said Sackler quietly. He paused for a moment and added, “I have”

Franklin stared at Sackler. Wolfe looked suspiciously at me. I was aware of a faint empty sensation at the pit of my stomach. I had seen Sackler pull rabbits out of a vacuous hat before.

Then I pulled myself together. He simply couldn’t do it this time. I had the whole thing in the bag.

“Would you mind explaining that last crack?” I said politely.

Sackler’s courteous tone matched my own. He said, “Not at all.” He stood up, crushed out his cigar and helped himself to another from a humidor on the taboret.

“First,” he said, “I must tell the inspector that Parry came to me on the day of the killing and told me he was going to run away from his wife.”

Wolfe glared at him. “You’re an accessory,” he yelled. “An accessory before the fact of murder.”

“I would be,” Sackler conceded, “if Parry was a murderer. He isn’t.”

The empty feeling in my stomach became more noticeable.

“During that interview,” said Sackler, “Parry told me that although his wife had money he was leaving all his savings, some thirty thousand dollars, behind in her bank account as a sort of conscience fund.”

“That was an obvious lie,” I said. “He told you that so you’d believe everything was on the level when he asked you for advice about how to keep under cover.”

Sackler shook his head. “It wasn’t an obvious lie, Joey. It wasn’t even a lie. I checked with Mrs. Parry’s bank yesterday. The money was deposited before Parry disappeared.”

“Well,” said Wolfe, “suppose this is all true. What does it prove?”

“It proves,” went on Sackler, “that Parry didn’t rifle his wife’s bureau looking for cash and jewels with which to scram. If he’d wanted that he wouldn’t have sunk all his dough in her account. If he’d planned to kill her he wouldn’t have done it either.”

“If that’s true,” I said, “how do you account for the forged draft Franklin got?”

“By arguing that Parry never forged a draft.”

“That’s nuts,” snapped Franklin. “I showed the draft to the police. It wasn’t Mrs. Parry’s signature written on that draft, at all.”

“And it wasn’t Parry’s, either,” said Sackler.

“Then whose was it?” Franklin exploded.

Sackler drew a deep breath and looked at him. “Yours,” he said quietly and drew deeply on his cigar.

Franklin was suddenly pale. I was apprehensive, and Inspector Wolfe was annoyed.

“Damn it, Rex,” he yelled. “If you’ve something to tell us, do so. Stop being mysterious.”

“All right,” said Sackler, flashing his most superior smile. “Let’s go back to the beginning. We find Mrs. Parry dead, her husband missing. Naturally everyone leaps to the conclusion that the absent husband is guilty. Since I believed he’d actually left cash behind for his wife, I simply couldn’t believe he’d killed her. Much less rifled her bureau for money and jewels with which to escape.”

“So,” said Wolfe, “who else had any motive?”

“I didn’t know right away,” said Sackler. “But it occurred to me that if Franklin and Mrs. Parry were engaged in various financial deals, there might have been a money motive. I looked into it.”

“And found what?” I said, having clear visions of ten grand slipping from my little fist.

“I first found out the name of the broker with whom Franklin dealt on behalf of Mrs. Parry. I visited the broker and learned that on the afternoon of the killing she had visited him and asked for a statement of her account. It showed vast profits.

“Now,” went on Sackler, “that broker’s statement was not found in the house by the police or anyone else. It was a natural conclusion that it had been taken, taken by the person who ransacked Mrs. Parry’s bureau. Parry, himself, would certainly have no use for it.”

Franklin said, “If you’re accusing me that’s not much evidence.”

“Not in itself,” said Sackler. “If you hadn’t badly overplayed the hand I might have been stuck. But you insisted on making sure that the guilt was fastened on Parry, as soon as you found out your luck in having him take a powder from his wife on the very night you killed her.

“So you fixed up that phoney draft and swore you’d given Parry money on it. You convinced Wolfe, all right, and Joey, here. But you didn’t quite convince me. And you knew you didn’t. Then you overplayed again. In order to convince me as thoroughly as you’d convinced everyone else, you sent in that ham, Wainwright.”

“Wainwright?” I said.

“That exhibitionist who called himself Sligo.”

I blinked and said, “I don’t get it.”

Slacker grinned. “You told me yourself that you thought you’d seen that mug somewhere before. You had — in many places. He was made up to look like a hood. That dollar tossing routine was swiped from the movies. Do you get it now?”

I got it slowly. “You mean he was a tenth rate actor, make up as a hood?”

“Right. He was so phoney it stuck out a mile. I checked by phone with several second class actor’s agencies. I’ve identified him as an out of work ham, named Wainwright. Wolfe can pick him up and sweat him afterwards.”

“Yes,” I said. “But why should Franklin send him in to make that phoney play?”

“He was still trying to make me believe Parry was guilty, that Parry had sent this hood to call me off the case.”

“You mean Franklin was robbing Mrs. Parry? She found out, faced him with it and he killed her? Then, learning that Parry had scrammed, Franklin tried to pin it on him?”

“It’s pretty obvious circumstantially,” said Sackler. “Parry, reading of the murder, was too damned scared to come forward. The newspapers flatly stated he was the murderer.”

Franklin took a step forward. He uttered two ugly words and his right hand thrust itself into his coat pocket. Sackler moved hastily behind a chair. Wolfe and I stepped forward. Wolfe grabbed his right arm just as the automatic came into view. I threw an arm around his throat, held him tight as Wolfe disarmed him.

Sixty seconds after Wolfe had removed Franklin, via the handcuff route, I stared at Sackler bitterly. “Don’t you ever lose?”

“Do you think you deserved to win, Joey?” he said severely.

“Why not?” I demanded hotly. “I figured that Abbott was Parry’s dame. I heard her say something you didn’t. I figured it all out, then managed to get his address from her. All on my own hook. I certainly deserved something.”

Sackler smiled faintly. “I’ll give you one thing,” he said. “You’re certainly one hell of a letter writer.”

I blinked. I said, “Say that again?” He did. I said, “What the hell do you know about that letter?”

“I read it. As a matter of fact it was delivered to me.”

“Delivered to you? How come?”

“Well, Joey, even without your special knowledge, I, too, figured that perhaps Abbott was Parry’s girl. I recalled that when he said he was leaving his savings for his wife he used the words conscience money. It seemed to me he felt guilty about it. Moreover, the Abbott woman made an odd crack when she said she wished she were dead instead of Agatha Parry. That was peculiar if she was just upset about the death of a friend. It made more sense if she were in pieces because Parry was the killer.”

“All right. So what’s this got to do with your getting my letter?”

“I went to the post-office and put in a change of address.”

I still didn’t get it. I said so.

“Well,” said Sackler, “I put in one of those change of address cards for Mrs. Abbott. I gave the new address as care of me at my rooming house. Since then all her mail has been coming to me. I would take it up to her place at night and drop it in her house mail box. Until Parry wrote. I kept that letter myself.”

I glared at him. “And you sent me that card with Parry’s address on it just to con me into giving up my ten percent?”

“I gave up my ten percent first.”

I sat down and clapped a hand to my head.

“To be successful in this business,” he said smugly, “there is one thing you must learn above all others.”

He crossed the room and stuffed his pockets with cigars from Franklin’s humidor. “And that,” he concluded, “is ethics.”