She lay awake long that night, wondering about the missing package, the brethren of the radical cult, the man with the missing ear, Johnny’s Gray Shadow, the Voice of the air, and many other more or less mysterious persons and things.
For all this, she woke with the rising sun ready for one more day at the store. And an eventful day it was to be.
She punched the clock promptly at the hour of nine, filled in the cards of her salesbook—which was, as we have said, only a blind to hide her real mission at the store—and then stood waiting, as it seemed, for a customer, but in reality with eyes wide open looking for trouble.
This morning trouble came sooner than she expected. But it was, you might say, trouble of her own making.
She had wandered out of the book section for a moment and drifted into the store’s little world of rare perfumes, when suddenly a man caught her attention. He was leaning on a counter, staring apparently at nothing. The man had a familiar look. Where had she seen him before? She racked her brain in vain. She took a turn to the right for a better view. Then, with the force of a blow, it came to her. At this point she saw the other side of the man’s face. On this side there was no ear.
“He’s my man!” she fairly hissed. “But how am I to get him?”
Joyce was a fast thinker. In a moment she had formed a plan.
Before her on the counter stood a vial of perfume. The price was, she knew, fifteen dollars. The girl at the counter turned to wait on a customer. In that instant the vial of perfume vanished. So, too, did our young lady detective. She brushed lightly past the man who still leaned on the counter staring at nothing.
When she returned a moment later a sturdy, middle-aged man accompanied her—the first assistant house detective.
“Are you sure?” he demanded in an undertone.