The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

The story of the killings had been fairly well hushed up. No newspaperman but himself knew of Patten’s connection — or about the photographs. And since neither Sorenson nor Ambrose were of any great importance in the life of the city, the newspapers’ accounts were not unduly lengthy, and there was little more than a hint that there might be a connection between the two deaths.

“Well, what the hell do you want?” Logan asked finally, coming over to the desk.

“Nothing,” Casey said, “except the guy that lifted that ten grand from me.”

“Then there really was a guy, huh?”

Casey shoved out his legs and eyed Logan morosely. “What’re you sore at. I suppose when Norma Patten told me her story last night I shoulda grabbed a phone and let you in on it.”

“You’d been better off.”

“Damned if I wouldn’t,” Casey admitted disgustedly.

“You oughta know better than to try this amateur detective stuff.”

“Detective stuff, hell!” Casey growled. “I was just a contact man — and I got a hunch Ambrose would’ve got knocked off whether I’d stopped there or not.”

“Yeah,” Logan said. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

He sat down opposite Casey, sighed and lit a cigarette, a tall, good-looking man with black eyes and black hair. His oxford gray suit was immaculate, his linen was fresh and his shoes were neatly polished. Competent, hard without making a fuss about it, he knew his job — and he knew Casey.

There was, between these two, a mutual respect and admiration founded upon experience and a long association; and for once their glum and somber moods seemed to synchronize. Presently Logan got comfortable in his chair and began to talk.

“Why didn’t you tell us you went down to the Hut to see the Professor last night?”

Casey looked up, momentarily startled.

“I don’t know,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it. “I wasn’t sure where he fitted and—”

“We aren’t sure now,” Logan muttered. “But someplace, son; someplace. We found he’d been at Sorenson’s studio earlier in the evening.”

“And what’s he say?” Casey asked, interested now.

Logan’s brows knotted at the bridge of his nose and he waved the cigarette in a gesture of resentment and defeat. “We don’t know. We can’t find him. All we know is that he was packing a gun last night — a waiter saw it when he sat down at the piano once. But he is in this someplace or he’d be around.”

Casey told about his talk with Boyden the previous night, and then asked: “How does Patten stand?”

“Number one,” Logan said. “We’ve got a lot of things on that baby.” He ground out his cigarette and sat up, eyes thoughtful. “We had him down here all morning. We’re pretty sure he was at Sorenson’s and we found a taxi-driver that took him to Ambrose’s office building somewhere around ten-thirty. The driver can’t be sure about the time.”