“And besides, Blossom, sweet,” Regg said patiently, “even if this Mr. Lennox did happen to buy some bottle goods here at some time or other, why should you be upset by the trouble he’s gotten into?”
“Who said I’m upset?” Blossom bit at him. “I think it’s interesting, that’s all. Quit bothering me.”
She marched into the little corner office behind the counter, bumped down into her husband’s chair, crossed her solidly modelled legs and continued to frown over the news about the fugitive cop-killer, Lennox.
A customer came in to keep Timothy Regg busy for a few minutes. Bidding the customer good-by and turning to his cash register with the money, Regg saw instantly that his little black book was no longer where he had left it on the counter.
Blossom had picked it up while his back was turned and was rapidly leafing through it. His reaction came lightning-fast. He snatched the book out of Blossom’s scarlet-nailed fingers and retreated clutching it behind his back.
“Whattaya mean, ya shrimp!” Blossom said, rising, her face furious. “Don’t you get rough with me. Gimme that back!”
Regg shook his bald head, looking immovable. “No. Not my little black book. Anything else of mine you can have for the taking, Blossom. Help yourself to every dollar in the cash register, I won’t care. Get mad and bust every bottle on these shelves, tear the shirt right off my back. Anything I own is yours, Blossom, sweet — except you can’t have my little black book.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why not? As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been guarding that thing like a miser guards his gold. What’ve you got written in it?”
“Just information, Blossom, such as the names and addresses of all my customers, with their likes and dislikes. But I’ve been many years accumulating it, Blossom, and it’s the very cornerstone of my business now, the most valuable thing I own. I just can’t let anybody touch it — not even you, my sweet.”
“I don’t get this,” Blossom said. “What’s so precious about a few names and addresses and such stuff?”
Her husband smiled patiently as he explained. When certain rare wines came in, he saved them for certain customers who preferred them. He had a number of free-spenders to whom he never mailed bills, for reasons of domestic strategy; with these, he always waited until they came in to pay cash.
Then too, some of his best customers had deliveries made to addresses other than their homes or offices — sometimes to two or three other places — and Timothy Regg offered an extremely valuable service by never getting such delicate situations fouled up.
“So you see, Blossom, dear, this little black book is not only my most valuable business asset,” Regg wound up, “but also, if this information should leak out to the wrong places it might cause no end of terrible trouble to my very best customers. That would ruin me, Blossom dear, and maybe ruin them too.”
A glitter had appeared in Blossom’s eyes. She answered with what was, in her, a surprising degree of understanding, “Well, I really can’t blame ya, Timmy. Like for instance, if you’ve got the name of an important man like, say, Mr. Ned Nelling, you’ve probably got him at one or two addresses which he would want us to keep mum about.”
Blossom had mentioned the name of Nelling as a sly means of testing the value of that little black book and her husband’s awareness as well. It was no secret to Blossom that Len Lennox had often found it convenient to be Ned Nelling. She watched her husband’s homely face to see whether it registered any suspicion of this; but it did not.
“Mr. Nelling’s got no less than four different addresses in my little black book, and a couple of ’em he’s told me never to mention to anybody else. He might call me say, ‘Send a case of stuff over Number Three place,’ and I’d known just what to take and where to go.” Timothy Regg shook his bald head.
“But nobody but me must know such information as that, Blossom. Not even you. Because such information could leak out and be very dangerous.” Backing up his injunction, Regg turned to a cupboard under the counter. He placed the precious little black book inside it, closed its door, firmly twisted the key in the lock, then tucked the key snugly in his pants pocket.
“You understand clearly, Blossom, dear? Never, never, never touch my little black book.”
“Poo,” Blossom retorted, lifting her blonde head derisively. “Anything I need to know, I’m quite sure I can find it out in other ways.”
As if to prove it, she directed her big, trimly shod feet across the store and marched out, leaving her husband to wonder just what she might mean.
Timothy Regg gazed after her, past the stacks of bottles in his show windows, with a sad expression settling on his face. Slowly shaking his head, he went to his desk, picked up the paper that Blossom had left there and read about the city-wide man-hunt which had one Len Lennox as its objective. Then he pulled his telephone close and dialed a number.
“Police headquarters?” he said politely. “Let me talk to Captain Dango, please— Captain Dango is out? You don’t know just when he’ll be back? Very busy on the Lennox case — hmm, I see. Well, it’s too bad, because I have met Captain Dango personally and I think he’s a very fine man, the kind of man I can talk to. I had a little message to give him. I wanted to tell him I’m afraid my wife is going to die very suddenly tonight.”
The telephone made twanging noises at Timothy Regg as he sat there, scarely hearing them, gazing out the street window at Blossom, who was just then hustling out of sight at the corner.
“Well,” he said, breaking in and arousing himself, “I do hope Captain Dango gets back in time, before my wife gets killed. I’d like to tell him about it beforehand, so I’ll call back a little later.” Then Timothy Regg added courteously, “Good-by,” and hung up.
It was 7 p.m. when Captain Dango appeared in his office at police headquarters. He came in quietly through a back door, looking haggard and hungry. The tough job of bringing Len Lennox to book was Captain Dango’s responsibility and he had put in an exhausting day getting nowhere with it.
Chagrined, worried and supperless, the captain sank into his chair and listened dejectedly while Kerson, his khaki-shirted secretary, gave him a brief digest of intelligence received during his absence.
Dango responded by saying heavily, “The hell with that routine. I’m concentrating on a rat named Lennox. Rustle me up four hamburger sandwiches and two quarts of coffee, pronto.”
Half a moment later, before even getting started on this assignment, Kerson was back with another item of news.
“He’s here now, Captain — just came in asking for you. I mean the guy I’ve been worrying about.”
Captain Dango’s own troubled mind being preoccupied with the task of smelling out and capturing Lennox, he had paid little attention to Kerson’s recital. He blinked and asked, “Which one was that?”
“The one who said he’s afraid his wife’s going to die suddenly tonight. He’s here to tell you about it. Says he runs a liquor store on Beetle Street — name’s Timothy Regg.”
Captain Dango’s eyebrows went up a notch. “I know him slightly. What makes him think she’s going to— Wait a minute.” Dango’s interest grew keener. “I remember his wife too. Name’s Blossom. I think she’s been mentioned somehow in connection with Lennox.”
Dango had been far too busy all day to look into such angles himself, but he scented a possibly important development here. He picked up his interphone and called Lieutenant Detective Hyam, who was acting as his first deputy in the Lennox man-hunt. “Blossom Regg — isn’t that the name of the woman who was seen at various roadhouses with Lennox just before he lammed?”