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

When Beth and the receptionist had left, Hallam said, “I understand you bought this station from Kenneth Ward.”

“That is correct,” Gruber said in precise tones. “And Ward took it over from your nephew, John Reeves, after a failed business arrangement between them.”

Hallam frowned. “How’d you know I’m Johnny’s uncle?”

“I make it a point to know the things that may affect my business. In this case, after you called this morning and requested an appointment to see me, I took the liberty of phoning an acquaintance at the Star-Telegram. He told me quite a bit about you, Mr. Hallam. There was a time when you were something of a celebrity in this town.”

“A long time ago,” Hallam said.

Gruber shrugged slightly and made a gesture with a well-manicured hand. “I assume you have come to Fort Worth because of the trouble your nephew is in.”

“That’s right. He didn’t kill Ward. But I’m going to find out who did.”

“An admirable goal,” Gruber said. “I wish you luck. But I don’t know how I can help you. I didn’t know Ward well, and I never even met John Reeves.”

“How did you come to buy this station from Ward?” Hallam asked bluntly.

“I had been looking for an investment opportunity in the communications field. Ward initially approached one of the companies that owns several other stations in this area, intending to sell to it. However, that company is not in the market for any more stations at the moment, so the man with whom Ward spoke — who is an acquaintance of mine — suggested that he talk to me instead.” Again Gruber gave his elegant little shrug. “A fortuitous meeting for all involved. Ward made a tidy profit on the sale. Of course, it didn’t save his life later.”

“Money won’t stop a forty-five slug,” Hallam said. “You know anybody else who might’ve wanted Ward dead?”

“I know of no one at all. My dealings with him were brief and strictly business. I’m told, however, that he was something of a shady character. I’m certain that if you continue digging, you will find what you need to know. I wish you luck.”

Gruber stood, indicating that the conversation was over. Hallam got to his feet as well, but before leaving the office, he said, “There’s one more thing I’d like to know, but I don’t want to insult you, Mr. Gruber.”

“Go ahead and ask your question, whatever it may be, Mr. Hallam. I assure you I will not be insulted.”

“All right,” Hallam said. “With everything that’s goin’ on in Europe right now, this ain’t a very good time to have a German name. Has it affected your business?”

“It might if I allowed my connection with the station to become common knowledge. But the owner of record is my corporation, Paragon Communications, and William Gruber is only a stockholder.”

“You’re hidin’ behind a phony name, then?”

Gruber’s mouth tightened a little. “I would not say hiding, Mr. Hallam. Merely being circumspect. My involvement with the company is a matter of public record, if anyone cares to delve into it.”

Hallam nodded. “All right. Like I said, I didn’t mean no offense. One of my best pals out in Hollywood is a fella named Charlie Gebhardt. You probably know him as Buck Jones.”

Gruber raised an eyebrow in surprise as Hallam left the office.

Hallam found Beth and the receptionist in one of the studios. Beth was pretending to be an announcer and talking into one of the big microphones. She grinned at Hallam and said, “Look, Lucas, I’m on the radio.”

“Sure you are, honey. You ready to go?”

“I guess,” Beth said reluctantly. She turned to the receptionist. “Bye, Janice.”

When they were in the car again, Beth turned to Hallam and said solemnly, “Did you know that fella Mr. Gruber is a Nazi spy?” Hallam frowned and looked at her in surprise. “What in blazes makes you think that?”

“Well, he’s a German, isn’t he? He looks like Conrad Veidt. He’s one of those Fifth Columnists, and he’s sending out coded messages to other Nazi spies. I heard them on the radio last night.”

“You’re talkin’ about that contest,” Hallam said as understanding dawned. “Those special numbers folks’re supposed to remember.”

“Code,” Beth said smugly. “I’m going to keep listening, and I’ll figure out what they’re up to. I’ll bet they’re planning some sort of sabotage.”

“Maybe so,” Hallam said, trying not to chuckle. William Gruber had struck him as a pretty cold-blooded businessman, but a Nazi spy? Hallam didn’t think so.

He dropped Beth off at Sarah’s house, over the girl’s objections. Beth would keep her part of the bargain, and Hallam would go see Raeann Jordan, who according to Dave Buckston had been the murdered man’s girlfriend.

The girl’s family lived not far from Colonial Country Club, which sprawled along the Trinity southwest of downtown Fort Worth. It was a neighborhood of huge houses with big lawns and tall shade trees. Hallam found the one he was looking for and drove up a circular driveway to park Sarah’s roadster under a fancy porte-cochere.

A woman in a maid’s uniform answered Hallam’s knock on the mahogany front door. He tugged his fedora off and said, “I’d like to see Miss Raeann Jordan if I might, ma’am.”

The maid frowned. “Do you have an appointment with Miss Raeann?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t, but I was hoping she’d give me a few minutes of her time. My name’s Lucas Hallam, and I’d like to speak to her about a fella named Kenneth Ward.”

From the look in her eyes, the maid recognized Ward’s name, all right. She also didn’t look as if she thought letting Hallam into the house would be a good idea. But then a man’s voice asked from somewhere behind her, “Who is it, Alice?”

“Some old gentleman who wants to see Miss Raeann, sir,” the maid said over her shoulder.

She stepped back and opened the door wider as a thick-bodied man with graying hair, a neatly trimmed moustache, and glasses came up to the entrance. He was wearing a sweater and carried a newspaper in one hand. “I’m Alvin Jordan,” he said to Hallam. “Perhaps I can help you. Raeann is my daughter.”

“Maybe so,” Hallam said. “I want to ask Miss Jordan a few questions about Kenneth Ward.”

Jordan’s face, barely affable to start with, lost any hint of hospitality as it hardened into a mask. “My daughter has nothing to say about that man or his death. The police have already questioned her, and she told them everything she knew about Ward, which was absolutely nothing. Now, if there’s nothing else—” Jordan reached for the door, obviously intending to shut it in Hallam’s face.

“Now, Daddy, you know that’s not true.”

Hallam looked past Jordan and saw a young woman coming down a curving staircase. She wore a simple dress but managed somehow to make it look like an elegant gown. Her hair was such a pale blond that it was almost silver.

“I’m dealing with this, Raeann,” Jordan told her, but she ignored him, coming straight to the door when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

“My father disapproved of my relationship with Ken,” she said to Hallam. “He’d like to pretend that it never existed. What did you say your name is?”

“Lucas Hallam, ma’am.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Hallam,” Jordan said curtly.

Raeann continued to ignore her father. “Come in, Mr. Hallam,” she said, stepping forward to take Hallam’s arm. “I’d be glad to talk to you.”

Jordan looked completely exasperated, but he moved aside and let Raeann lead Hallam into the house. She took him to a parlor and set him down on a fancy sofa, settling herself beside him. Her father sat in an armchair on the other side of the room, rattled his newspaper a few times in disapproval, then retreated behind it. Hallam thought he had this relationship figured out: Raeann Jordan did just about whatever she pleased, and though her father might grump around about it, he never really tried to stop her. Hallam wondered how long the girl’s mother had been dead. A good while, he guessed.