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

“Now, tell me what you want to know, Mr. Hallam. Are you a reporter of some kind?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a private detective. But more’n that, I’m Johnny Reeves’s uncle.”

That got through Raeann’s pose of languid indifference. “The man the police say shot Ken?”

“That’s right. I don’t believe he did it, so I’m trying to find out who might have.”

Raeann lifted a hand to her breast. “You can’t possibly think that I—”

“You tell me, ma’am,” Hallam said coolly.

That brought a response from Alvin Jordan. “See here!” he said sharply, lowering his paper. “No matter who you are, you can’t come in here and start accusing my daughter of killing someone!”

“Oh, hush, Daddy,” Raeann said. She looked at Hallam. “I didn’t shoot Ken. I couldn’t have. I loved him. Besides, I was at a party that evening, and a hundred and fifty people saw me there.”

She was mighty handy with that alibi, Hallam thought, but what she said sounded true. He looked over at Jordan and asked bluntly, “What about you?”

“What do you mean?” Jordan said.

“You didn’t like your daughter bein’ mixed up with a shady character like Ward. Maybe you did something about it.”

“This is insane!” Jordan exclaimed.

“Ken wasn’t a shady character!” Raeann added.

Hallam wasn’t going to argue that point with her. There was too much evidence to the contrary to worry about what she thought of Ward. But he was still waiting for Jordan’s answer, and after a moment the oilman said, “I was at the same party as my daughter, if you must know.”

“All right,” Hallam said with a nod, accepting what Jordan had told him. “But you knew Ward pretty well, Miss Jordan. Was there anybody else you know of who had a reason to want him dead?”

“I had nothing to do with Ken’s business affairs,” Raeann answered quickly. “Our relationship was strictly social.”

“But maybe he said something sometime that made you wonder,” Hallam prodded.

Raeann frowned in concentration. “Well, there was one time when Ken seemed upset about something. He wouldn’t say much except that he wasn’t going to let anyone double-cross him.”

“Did you tell the police that?”

She shook her head. “They didn’t ask. They just wanted to know if John Reeves had ever threatened Ken while I was around. I told them the truth, that I had seen the two of them arguing at the Four Treys.” Raeann shrugged her slender shoulders. “But that’s all I know.”

“There,” Jordan snapped. “Are you satisfied now?”

Not particularly , Hallam thought, but he figured he had gotten about all he was going to out of the Jordans. He stood up and said, “I’ll be goin’, I reckon. But if you think of anything else that might help me, Miss Jordan—”

“I won’t. That’s everything, Mr. Hallam. Honestly.”

Hallam wasn’t sure, but for now he was willing to let it go. No point in putting them on their guard by saying that he might be back later to ask them more questions.

Jordan showed Hallam out himself, rather than summoning the maid, as if he wanted to see with his own eyes that the unwelcome visitor was gone. As Hallam drove away, he thought about what he had learned so far today, which wasn’t much. He could see why the cops had settled on Johnny as the killer. There might be speculation about Ward’s other business dealings, but there was good solid evidence that Johnny had hated him and had in fact argued with him shortly before his death.

Maybe Beth had something with that Nazi spy business. If Gruber was a Fifth Columnist, and if Ward had found out and threatened to expose him...

Hallam chuckled and shook his head. He was grasping at straws now, and he knew it. He reached over and turned on the radio to clear his mind.

Then his eyes narrowed, and for a moment he didn’t even see the road in front of him. He was too busy thinking...

By late that afternoon, he had all the information he needed. It had taken some digging in the morgue of the Star-Telegram, as well as picking the brain of the reporter who was currently on the police beat. The man knew of Hallam by reputation and was glad to talk to him in return for the promise of an exclusive.

Hallam was listening to the radio station as he parked in front of it. The Shadow was just about to begin, and the music from a Blue Coal commercial was playing as Hallam shut off the engine. He could have used Lamont Cranston right about now, he thought as he walked into the building. The power to cloud men’s minds had to come in mighty handy sometimes. Hallam didn’t have that ability.

But after all these years, he sure as hell knew about the evil that lurked in the hearts of men...

The pretty young receptionist was already gone for the day. Hallam headed down the hall toward William Gruber’s office. Before he got there, he spotted Gruber through a big window that looked into one of the studios. The red light over the door wasn’t on, and the radio drama that was coming softly from the speakers mounted on the wall of the corridor was more proof that the mikes inside the studio weren’t live. Hallam opened the door.

Gruber had a sheaf of papers in his hand, probably a programming schedule, from the looks of it. He glanced up from what he was doing and said in surprise, “Why, Mr. Hallam, what brings you back here?”

“Came to see you, Mr. Gruber,” Hallam said as he shut the door. “I need to ask you some more questions.”

“About Kenneth Ward? I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

Hallam leaned a hip against one of the studio consoles and placed his fedora down so that it covered several of the dials and switches. “Well, when I was here this morning, you didn’t say anything about bein’ Ward’s partner in the cattle business.”

Gruber frowned. “That’s because I wasn’t. I’m in the radio business, Mr. Hallam. I know nothing about cows.”

“You sure? There’s good money to be made in cattle. That’s why folks steal ’em.”

“You’re speaking of what? Rustling? Isn’t that what they call it on the radio plays and in the movies?” Gruber laughed. “That was in the old days, wasn’t it?”

“It’s still goin’ on,” Hallam said. “For example, Ward had four trucks full of cattle hijacked in the month before his death. He was bringin’ ’em to Fort Worth to sell ’em in the stockyards, but they never got here. Hijackers hit the trucks on the highways into town, no matter where they were comin’ from. One of ’em was headin’ up U.S. 67 from Stephenville, another was on 281 comin’ down from Bowie. Then there was a truck lost on Highway 80 west o’ here, and another on 77 comin’ down from the north. Ward owned all of ’em through a series of dummy companies. None of that’s public knowledge, but the cops found out about it when they went through his records after he was killed. Took some diggin’, but I found out, too.”

Gruber looked bored and annoyed. “I have work to do, Mr. Hallam, and while this is certainly interesting, it has nothing to do with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I figure Ward had a silent partner in all those deals,” Hallam went on, as if Gruber hadn’t spoken. “And that partner double-crossed him by tippin’ off a gang when and where they could hit a shipment of Ward’s cattle. That partner was you, Gruber.”

Now the station owner was more than annoyed. He was mad. “I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave,” he said.

“I’ll go soon enough,” Hallam said. He gestured at the notes in Gruber’s hand. “Figurin’ out the special numbers for that contest you’re runnin’? Reckon you’ve got to keep it up for a while and actually give a little money away so that nobody will know you were really usin’ it to send messages to the fellas who were stealin’ Ward’s cattle for you.”