D. Champion - Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 30, No. 2 — July 1947)

“I mean that I’ve been through every book in the Library and I could not find any record of that corny crack Fleming asked you to run down.”

Sackler groaned and clapped a hand to his head. “You looked in Bartlett?”

“I looked in Bartlett and every other book of quotations, every reference book, and I requested and received the aid of two librarians. We couldn’t find it.”

Sackler looked stricken now.

I said: “You’ve made a grand on the Dworkin deal. What are you looking so miserable about?”

“But I lose a hundred dollars,” he said hollowly. “On a simple matter like that quotation. A hundred dollars, Joey. That kind of money doesn’t grow on trees.”

“I repeat, you’ve made a thousand.”

But Rex Sackler didn’t look at it that way. He felt he was out a hundred bucks just as surely as if someone had picked his pocket.

“Well,” he said at last, “we’ve got a couple of days. Tomorrow I’ll go to the library myself.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I was concerned about a hundred dollars of my own. I had three months to trick Sackler into smoking a cigarette and I’d feel much easier when it was done.

I arrived at the office on the following morning, having spent a restless night. Sackler had not come in yet. I let myself in with the key, seated myself at the desk and picked up the morning paper.

I finished that, went downstairs and purchased a copy of the early edition of the afternoon paper, and Sackler had not returned yet.

It was almost noon when the door opened and he arrived. There was dark melancholy in his eyes and a worried expression on his thin face. He shook his head sadly and sank wearily into his chair.

“Joey,” he said, “you were right. I can’t find that quotation.”

“Good,” I said. “Now you’ll have to give him the hundred bucks back.”

He uttered a groan which sounded like the agony of a lost soul. However, it came as sweet melody into my ears. Next to making money myself I loved to see Sackler lose it.

An instant later the door opened again and a heavy footfall sounded on the floor. I swung my head around to see Inspector Woolley.

Woolley was a big, impressive man with a pair of black mustachios. He did not like Rex Sackler and at the moment that dislike was written clearly on his face. He strode across the room, halted before Sackler’s desk, pointed an accusing forefinger and said loudly: “What do you know of one Arthur Freuh?”

Then before Sackler could open his mouth to reply, Woolley added darkly: “You’d better come clean. This is important and legal business.”

Sackler, whose affection for Woolley was only equalled by the Inspector’s regard for him smiled coldly and said: “I know no Arthur Freuh. I never heard of him. And if he is a criminal I resent you suggesting that I have ever associated with him.”

“Well,” said Woolley heavily to me, “ain’t he the white knight, though.” He turned back to Sackler and addressed him with severity. “If you don’t come clean you’ll be associating with quite a number of criminals, son.”

Sackler lifted cold, interrogating eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’re supposed to have a sharp mind. I mean I’ll throw you in the clink.”

“On what charge?”

“Suspicion of anything, or as a material witness held in the kind of bond it’d kill you to pay. Now what about this Freuh?”

Some of Sackler’s arrogance had left him. He knew that nothing would give Woolley more pleasure than to throw him in the pokey.

He said more mildly: “I’ve told you I know nothing of a man named Freuh. Now, suppose, you tell me why you think I do.”

Woolley took a small leather notebook from his pocket. “This,” he announced, “is one of those daily reminder books. Each page bears a date, one for each day of the year. On the page dated yesterday there are written the names of three men with whom its owner apparently had appointments yesterday. The first of those names is Joseph Capelli.”

“The big racket boy,” I said.

“The second,” said Woolley, “is that of Ralph Barnshaw.”

“A lesser racket boy,” said Sackler.

“And the third,” said Woolley with an ominous note in his voice, “is the name of Rex Sackler.”

“The greatest racket boy of them all,” I said heartily.

Sackler ignored that. “Where did you get that book?” he asked.

“My men took it from a corpse, gave it to the Treasury men who were interested in the case. They lent it back to me.”

“T men?” I said. “What have they to do with it?”

“That’s their business and the police department’s,” said Woolley bruskly.

“I take it,” said Sackler slowly, “that the corpse was that of this Arthur Freuh?”

“Right,” said Woolley, “and apparently he had a date with you yesterday.”

I shook my head. “No, sir,” I said, “the only guy here yesterday was—”

“Arthur Freuh,” said Sackler surprisingly.

“You’re crazy,” I said, “the only guy who was here yesterday was that nut, Fleming.”

“I’m beginning to think that Fleming was Freuh. Describe your man, Inspector.”

Woolley briefly described Arthur Freuh and it was a perfect description of Wilbur Fleming. Sackler nodded his head. “That’s the man.”

“What did he want with you?” snapped Woolley.

“To engage me on a confidential matter in no way illegal.”

Woolley thought that over and let it drop. He snapped, “Did he give you any money?”

Sackler considered carefully before he answered that question. Precisely what went on in his mind I do not know, but wherever money was concerned he invariably calculated all angles before he committed himself. After a long while he said, “Yes.”

“Ah,” said Woolley, registering extreme interest. “And what did you do with it?”

Again Sackler did not speak before he thought. Imagining, I supposed, that if Woolley knew the cash was in his desk, he would demand it as evidence or something, Sackler lied calmly. He said: “I banked it.”

“Oh,” said Woolley and it seemed to me that there was a note of disappointment in his voice, “that’s all right, then.”

What he meant by that odd remark I did not know. Neither apparently did Sackler. However, Rex was so relieved to change the subject that he became slightly more cooperative.

“I assure you,” he said, “that this Fleming or Freuh or whatever his name was had no business with me which would interest you. He only engaged me to locate a couple of items for him.”

Woolley seemed surprised. “He wanted something located?”

Sackler nodded. “And nothing material at that.”

“Well,” said Woolley, “I guess his business with you had nothing to do with my business with him.”

Sackler looked at him curiously but Woolley was putting out no more information. The Inspector sighed, pulled a fat cigar from his pocket, put it between his teeth and bade us a curt good day. Then he stalked from the office.

I said to Sackler: “What’s it all about?”

His thin shoulders shrugged. “I’m not sure. But piecing together Woolley’s odd conversation I should say Freuh was just murdered and that it appears like a very interesting case. However, since we haven’t been retained I refuse to apply my mind to the interpretation of the Inspector’s words.”

I sat down at my desk and a sudden thought came to me. I said: “That dough Freuh gave you.”

He glanced at me distastefully. “What about it, Joey?”

“You tracked down that Dworkin guy successfully so I suppose you’re entitled to those two five hundred dollar bills.”