Private Detective Stories, August, 1945
What grim motive was behind the terroristic frightening of those beautiful New York models, and behind the murder that accompanied it? I, Austin Gardner, had two dangerous reasons for wanting to find out . . . .
JIMMY WABASH said; “I'm telling you, Austin, this gal is something. You can take your million-buck models and throw them all together and you ain't got nothing that can touch her.”
I regarded him with amusement. He was a funny little guy with red hair and the sharpest- pointed nose I've ever seen. A photographer, and a good one, he preferred to freelance rather than take a job, although he could have commanded an excellent salary.
“I like to take pictures of what I want, the way I want to take them,” he told me once, and I believed him.
“Take it easy, Jimmy,” I said, winking at Henry Graylord, my agency manager. “You'll blow a fuse. To hear you tell it, this tomato is super-extra. I'd almost think you were gone on her if I didn't know that you regard women as strictly from hunger.”
He grinned, the red climbing up his pinched cheeks until it reached his oversized ears and colored them. “I wouldn't know about that.” He'd lowered his voice. “You see, the way I feel about this Mary . . . all I want to do is sit and look at her, like you would look at a statue or something.”
