Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

“Quade,” Slocum said, “you said Needham wanted me to give you a contract to be Desmond Dogg’s voice. I’ll give you a contract, but it’ll be for Maynard’s job.”

“Ollie!” cried Charlie Boston, standing by the window. “The car! Some hit-and-run driver smacked it!”

The yellow sports job had been hit. One headlight was gone, a fender and running-board crumpled and the hood badly damaged.

Quade looked at the car and turned to go out the door after Chris Buck.

“Where you going, Mr. Quade?” asked Thelma.

“To hunt up Mr. Christopher Buck. He admired this car yesterday. I’m going to sell it to him, now, at a bargain. Sight unseen!”

Murder Made Easy by Carroll John Daly

Clay Holt brings death to a spy — in a plane that goes 500 miles per hour!

* * *

Clay Holt swung easily out of his office, looked at his secretary assistant, said: “Bad morning, Awful.” He took in with a glance that drawn-back hair, the rimmed glasses that gave those gorgeous eyes a sandy appearance. He saw too the other grotesque little jokes that she worked backward on the public.

“You’re so beautiful.” He held a hand over her eyes. “And yet you spend money to make yourself look so homely. Listen, Awful, I’m known as big and tough in the business since I got Carson Simmons, Public Enemy A, B, C, and D. I want you to look yourself.”

Awful said, “I talked you into hiring me because I was homely. If you had a good looking girl you’d spend all your time chasing her around the office or taking her out. You’re a sucker for women.”

“Me?” Clay was indignant. “Just because I have an old-fashioned courtesy toward the fair sex!” And, side-tracking that line quickly, “Give me four or five hundred dollars. I like to feel real dough in my pockets.”

“That’s right, Detective Holt.” Agatha Cummings’ stiffness was more pretended than real. “You had a big case, spent the money like a drunken sailor, then turned down small cases. Here.” She opened her purse and gave him fifty dollars. “Don’t look at it in such disgust. You mightn’t see that much again for some time. And don’t give me that line about beautiful women being needed in your business. The last one you wined and dined gave you the wrong telephone number. If you want to do some real sleuthing, do it in your bank book.”

“Is that all that’s in the bank?” Clay looked at the five tens; at Awful’s face, turned and walked out of the office.

He was all business now as he trotted down to the biggest detective agency in the city. He bolted into the manager’s office, said: “I’ve got a bit of time, Frank. You offered me a thousand dollars sometime back. Spill the grand; I can fix it up for you now.”

Mr. Frank Bead was a hawk-eyed little man. His voice choked with sarcasm. “Why, that’s real nice of you, Clay. But there wasn’t any beautiful woman in that case.” And coming suddenly to his feet: “Damn it, Clay, that was three months ago. The client was shot dead — and what’s more, I won’t lend you a cent.”

“Lend me a cent!” Clay’s mouth opened wide. “Why, I could buy your whole works. Don’t come around asking me for favors with your dime a dance clients. I’m having lunch at the Walden Hotel. There might be ten grand in it for me.”

Bead said, “Keep your fingers out of the coffee,” and leaned over the reports on his desk.

Fifteen minutes later Clay trod heavily into the Walden Hotel. The doorman bowed low. The clerks behind the desk smiled. Bellhops jumped to attention.

Clay handed his coat to the wide-eyed girl before the door of the dining-room. “On the level, honey, you should be in pictures. Give me a card with your address and — Hello, Charles.” This to the captain as he came forward. “Same table. You, Joe,” to a boy in a white and red uniform, “call up my office and see if anything of importance needs my personal attention,” and to the manager: “How’s business, head man?”

“Good! And with you, Mr. Holt?”

“Immense, immense!” Clay bent confidentially toward him. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you the amount of jack I picked up last week — blackmail case. I’ll be setting up an account here again I guess.”

“But we agreed on that three days ago.” The manager shook a finger at him. “I am not to push you for your bill — and you simply pay cash.”

Clay started, shook his head. “So I’ve been signing for stuff, eh? Remember the amount of the bill?”

“Four hundred dollars. A mere four hundred and seventy-seven dollars and thirty-five cents, Mr. Holt.”

“Is that so? Is that so?” Clay was watching the knock-out in white who was alone at a table completely across the room. Her dark hair, her black eyes and her dark complexion enhanced her spectacular beauty against the white. Her eyes were on him. They were pleading eyes — pleading for him to come to her table. Clay jerked at his tie, took one step and stopped.

“Your office on the phone,” the bellhop said. “Your secretary, Miss Cummings, sir.”