Black Mask (Vol. 33, No. 4 — November 1949)

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I thought I was a lucky, lucky guy to collect a cool one hundred for weeping into a mobster’s bier — until I learned how my fellow casket-toters planned to pay off...

All my clients are, first of all, just silhouettes on the ground glass door of my office. They stand out there in the corridor, reading the neat gold lettering — William Carmody, Confidential Investigations — and assure themselves that a private detective is just what they need in life. The silhouette that Vivian Ledell threw on the glass — I didn’t know her name then — should have been etched there permanently for art lovers. What I mean, I started gnawing on the phone.

“What?” Margaret O’Leary demanded from the other end of the line. She’d been bending my ear for twenty minutes and I hadn’t even gotten in a comma. “What did you say, Willie?”

“Upperplate wobble.” I explained. “I’ve got to go now. Business.”

“All right,” Maggie said. “What I called for, Willie, is to see if you want to go to a garden party this afternoon I’m doing a gossip spread on it for one of the fan mags. I can pass you off as my assistant... There’s a buffet lunch, Willie.”

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