The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

The flashlight moved its beam down through the torn stretch of flooring. On the ground, crumpled in a limp pile, lay Rick Preston. His glasses were broken and glistening beside him, and his thin, hungry face was twisted into a frozen snarl. He still had the revolver clutched in his right hand, and his coatfront was sodden with blood.

“That one,” said Van Diesten in numbed amazement. “That is the reporter that came only tonight to my home to ask me about this Myra Martin.”

“He’s dead,” said Collins, climbing up on the floor again. “Where’s the girl?”

The light moved away and circled across the floor toward the dark secretiveness of a corner. There was Myra Martin, at last. She was sitting up and smiling a little with her dead lips, and there was a red hole in her forehead and a trickle of blood that scarcely marred her still white prettiness.

“Poor little dummy,” said Collins.

“What is it, please?” said Van Diesten. “This... all this... I do not understand.”

Collins said slowly: “Myra Martin was a foolish little girl who wanted desperately to get into the movies. She couldn’t in the ordinary way, because she didn’t have enough talent or training, but of course she didn’t believe that. She’d gotten quite a little fame out of some publicity she got from winning a beauty contest, and she thought the same thing might work out here. She was going to use you as a stooge.”

“Me?” said Van Diesten. “But why?”

“You’re a famous director. She disappeared, leaving a lot of clues that would, by inference, point to you. Then her mother appeared, searching for her. She inquired everywhere — drawing attention to herself with her pathetic little story about her lost daughter and her lost business. Then she, too, disappeared just as her daughter had.”

“But why?” Van Diesten repeated blankly.

“To draw attention to Myra’s disappearance. As soon as either of those disappearances were investigated at all, all the planted clues and hints would point right at you. There’d be inquiries made and publicity.”

“And tonight?” Van Diesten asked.

“Tonight you were to have a mysterious interview with Myra. When questions were asked, you’d testify to that. Then Mrs. Martin would reappear, and you’d meet her. They’d bounce you back and forth between them, and you’d have to play along because you’d be more and more under suspicion of trying some dirty work. But right here, another party cut in. That was Rick Preston — very clever, very unscrupulous. He saw what Myra was up to — saw it quicker than I did. He wasn’t interested in two-for-a-penny publicity. He wanted money and a lot of it, and he realized instantly that Myra’s scheme was an ideal one for blackmailing you. If he changed that setup a little, you’d be right behind the eight-ball. You’d be accused of complicity in the disappearance of Myra and Mrs. Martin, and even if you could prove in court you had nothing to do with either, you’d be ruined in pictures. They won’t take a scandal like that.”