Edward Hoch: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 111, No. 1. Whole No. 677, January 1998

The doorman hesitated, and Hallam knew what he was thinking. The fella was trying to decide if Hallam was crazy enough to pull a gun and start blasting.

He was saved from having to make that decision by a voice that called out, “Hello, Lucas! When did you get back in town?”

The rugged-looking, white-haired man who strolled up had an air about him that said he ran the place. The doorman gestured at Hallam and asked incredulously, “You know this old gink, Mr. Buckston?”

“Sure I do.” The owner of the gambling club grinned. “Come on in, Lucas. I’ll buy you a drink.”

Hallam started into the building with Dave Buckston, but he glanced back and said to the doorman, “The answer, son, is— Yep, I sure am.”

The club had been built as a private residence, and it still served as that for Buckston and his family. The owner led Hallam to a bar and got a cold beer from the bartender for him. Hallam took a swallow, then said, “I reckon you probably know why I’m here.”

Buckston nodded. The music coming from one of the other rooms, the excited talk, the laughter, the click of chips and the shuffle of cards and the rattle of the roulette wheel all blended into a background melody that was unlike anything else in the world. Over that sound, Buckston said, “You came to see about that nephew of yours.”

“He says he didn’t kill Ward.”

Buckston shrugged. “Most murderers say they didn’t do it.”

“I believe Johnny. From what I hear, this fella Ward played pretty fast and loose most of the time. Sounds to me like there might’ve been somebody else who wanted him dead.”

“I suppose Ward had other enemies,” Buckston admitted. “But he played it straight here and paid up when he lost. That made him a good customer as far as I was concerned.”

“But you might’ve heard something, Dave...”

Buckston hesitated, then said with a frown, “You might look up a girl named Raeann Jordan. Society girl here in town. Father’s got a lot of oil and gas money. I heard she and Ward had some kind of blowup.”

“Trouble over business?”

Buckston gave a short bark of laughter. “Monkey business, I’d say.”

“Thanks, Dave.” Hallam drained the rest of the beer. “For the drink and for the information.”

“Glad to help, Lucas. Don’t get your hopes up. Could be Johnny Reeves really did kill Ward.”

Hallam nodded curtly. Maybe Buckston was right — but Hallam didn’t want to think about that just yet.

He would look up Raeann Jordan tomorrow, Hallam decided as he drove away from the Four Treys. The train trip from L.A. had been tiring, and he knew his thinking might be clearer if he got a good night’s sleep. On the way back to Sarah’s house, he turned on the radio in the Ford and found it set to the station that Johnny had owned before Kenneth Ward had swindled him out of it. Curious, Hallam listened for a few minutes. There was a program of dance music on, nothing out of the ordinary. When the number ended, an announcer came on and read the news, which these days consisted mainly of troop movements and bombardments and such-like. Hallam sighed. There were a lot of American boys overseas now, and way too many of them would never be coming home.

The announcer wrapped up the break by saying excitedly, “And tonight’s special numbers are... 17, 39, 54, 66, 77, and 93. Keep track of those numbers, folks, and win big money!”

Hallam snorted. Radio contests were just a bunch of hoopla as far as he was concerned. Real people never won anything at them.

“And now back to our evening of music from the Casino Beach Ballroom,” the announcer concluded, and the lush strains of a big band came over the airwaves again.

So far it hadn’t been much of a homecoming, Hallam thought.

But he was just getting started.

Hallam figured that Raeann Jordan, being a society gal from a rich family, was probably the type who liked to sleep late. Wanting to be polite about things — at least for the time being — he decided to make another stop the next morning before he looked her up. He headed for the radio station that had once belonged to his nephew.

He had company this time. Beth had been adamant. She loved the radio, and she was going to see what a real radio station looked like.

“I’ve been to some of the stations in L.A.,” Hallam told her as he drove back toward downtown. The station was located on Seventh Street, not far from the river. “They’re nothing special. Just buildings with a bunch of machines in them.”

“I don’t care,” Beth said from the roadster’s passenger seat. “I want to see it for myself.”

That was just like her, Hallam thought. She was curious about nearly everything.

“Back when radio was just gettin’ started,” he said, “we called it wireless. Folks were used to bein’ able to talk over telephone wires, but to be able to turn a switch on a box and hear voices and music comin’ out of thin air... well, it was something, let me tell you.”

“Golly, I don’t know what I’d do without radio,” Beth said, shaking her head. “It just wouldn’t be the same without the Shadow, and Fibber McGee and Molly, and the Great Gildersleeve, and the Lone Ranger—”

“You could always read books,” Hallam cut in, knowing that if he didn’t stop her, she’d likely go on naming her favorite programs for several minutes.

“It’s not the same.”

Hallam didn’t argue the point. He had given in and allowed Beth to come with him this morning on the condition that she would go with her Aunt Sarah to the zoo this afternoon, while Hallam kept on tending to the business that had brought them here. Beth was still a little mad about not being told the real reason for their visit until they had gotten to Fort Worth.

The radio station was a red-brick building perched on the edge of a bluff overlooking the Trinity River. The ground floor faced Seventh Street, but there was a lower floor built on the side of the bluff. Hallam parked in the small lot and took Beth inside.

A young receptionist with a hairstyle patterned after the Andrews Sisters took them to an office in the rear of the building after speaking on the phone for a moment. Their route led them along a hallway, and on both sides of the corridor were large windows. Through the glass, Hallam and Beth could see the equipment that kept the station on the air and sent its signal out to the world. Hallam had never seen so many dials and gauges and glowing lights. There were also several studios with big microphones on floor stands. Beth stared at them, wide-eyed with awe. When they reached the window that looked into a studio where an announcer was reading the farm and ranch report, Hallam had to practically drag Beth away. A small red light was burning over the door into the studio, reminding Hallam of the movie sets in Hollywood, where a red light also indicated that something important was going on inside.

A tall, slender man with a shock of fair hair was waiting for them in the office. He stood up, extended his hand across a paper-cluttered desk, and said, “Mr. Hallam? I’m William Gruber, the owner and general manager.” His voice had a faint accent.

Hallam shook hands with the man and said, “This is my daughter Beth.”

“Hello, Beth,” Gruber said with a smile. “Are you interested in radio?”

“You bet,” Beth replied. “I mean, yes, sir, I am.”

“Janice,” Gruber said to the receptionist, “why don’t you give Beth a tour of the station?”

“All right, Mr. Gruber,” the young woman said with a nod.

Beth looked at Hallam. “Can I, Lucas?”

“Go ahead,” he told her. The discussion he planned to have with Gruber wasn’t really meant for the ears of a little girl anyway.