The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“Later,” I said, “we’ll settle that. Who murdered whom?”

Lew stood up and took his Panama from the desk.

“I’ve an appointment, Mike, and I was hoping you’d get here in time to come along. Let’s shove off.”

So we shoved off from Hollywood and Vine in my car — and over on Sunset Boulevard, Lew ordered me to stop before the Greek-colonnaded front of J. Conwell Smythe’s Sons, Morticians.

“Did you read my mind?” I growled as we got out. “A funeral parlor is exactly where I’d like to leave you!”

Lew chuckled. “Kid, you’ll thank me for this before you’re through. Did I tell you there was a two grand reward for anyone who broke this case?”

“You wouldn’t,” I said, “if you could figure a way to collar the dough... And what does the score have to read before the reward is paid?”

We were inside by then. A long, lean, lugubrious lassie of some forty winters met us.

“Yes?” she said, and thawed visibly as Lew grinned.

“I have an appointment here with Mr. Farnson,” Lew beamed in his best Hollywood manner. “Ryster is the name.”

A faint flush appeared in her pallid cheeks.

“Mr. Farnson is in Room Three, with two other gentlemen. He is expecting you, Mr. Ryster. If this other gentleman will have a seat, I will show you to Room Three.”

“He’s here to meet Farnson also,” says Lew carelessly, and when he grinned again her doubtful look vanished and we all went back to Room Three.

The heavy scent of flowers filled the small room into which we walked. Three men in there had been talking in low tones; and one of them — the tallest — said: “I was wondering if you’d come.”

“Sorry if I’m late, Mr. Farnson,” says Lew — and I saw the old Hollywood chuckle start and freeze off as Lew realized where he was.

Two floor lamps in the back corners of the room dusted indirect light against the ceiling and down in subdued dimness, down over the flower sprays and the pinkish coffin resting just beyond the men...

She might have been sleeping in the coffin — that girl whose peaceful, life-like face rested there on a satin pillow surrounded by a chaste froth of lace.

They had dressed her in what might have been a wedding gown of white satin, and she was heart-stoppingly natural, even to the little splash of good-natured freckles still luring along the bridge of a small tippity nose. Her mouth had once been built for laughter — and now it never would again smile.

But the spell of her was there in the room, even on the mortician’s lean lady, who lingered inside the door eyeing the coffin for a moment, and whispered: “So lovely — and we have never brought out a face so well.”

Farnson, whose mustache was a white military line against his heavy, full-blooded face, snapped: “Enough, Madam! This meeting is not an exhibit of your skill!”

She faded out in pallid silence and closed the door and the stocky-chested man on Farnson’s left speared me with a disagreeable stare, jerked his head at me and grunted: “Who’s this guy?”