Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

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The man who put lovely Flame Harlin out of the way made a serious mistake — but it was his last. Flame was true to her name — a cookie who could never be cold. And after she was dead she fixed it so her murderer would be nice and cozy too — in a special chair that was wired for warmth.

It was early fall, and faintly chilly, outside. In my office, the thermometer was well over seventy, but Miss Townsbury had brought some chill with her.

Make no mistake, form no mental picture because of the ‘Miss’. She was between forty and fifty years of age, dressed in some brown and eye-repelling type of ribbed silk. An iceberg, in brown silk. Blue eyes, blue as frozen sea water, and features sharp as icicles, with an icicle’s thinness to her spare figure. There was nothing about her to indicate that she had ever melted or would ever melt.

She was telling me about the girl named Flame. Flame was the daughter of her brother’s second wife — if you follow me. That is, her brother had married twice. For his second wife, he had married a divorcee. This divorcee had a daughter by her first marriage. This daughter’s name was Flame, I hope it’s all clear.

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