Black Mask (Vol. 31, No. 4 — July 1948)

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Murder was Johnny Ford’s business and he knew it was nothing to fool around with. Amateurs always get burned if they attempt to correct the script of a slay sequence.

The door to the inner office was ajar though I remembered closing it when I went out. I had come in quietly out of habit and there was no sound from inside the office. I crossed the anteroom and pushed the door wide.

The lean, tall man was seated at my desk. His sparse gray hair was precisely combed, giving his quiet face an old-fashioned, daguerreotype look. His tropical weight suit was gray as was the hat on the corner of the desk. Both looked expensive. His head inclined over my portable chessboard on the desk blotter. A slender thumb and forefinger tugged at an ear lobe and his lips were pursed slightly.

“Good afternoon.”

He looked up, the contemplative expression still on his face. His eyes were blue and his mouth firm and square. “Are you Mr. Ford?”

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