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

“Tell her — er, ask her if there is any message for me. I’ll wait here by the door.”

Clay was studying the woman. He was used to women looking at him. There was something else in this woman’s eyes, as if she needed him more than just wanted his company. As if she were in trouble.

He turned to the returning bellhop: “What did my secretary say?”

“Why, she said, sir, if you’d excuse yourself to the lady for a few minutes she had to speak to you.”

“What lady?” And as the boy started to point: “Never mind!” He slipped the boy a bill and walked straight to the telephone booth. “Well, Awful, what’s so important that you need me? I just rang you up about joining me for lunch, but—”

“I can see the but from here. Really nothing to tell you, Clay, except someone leaned down from an upper window and tossed a pineapple into your private office, blew your expensive modernistic furniture to pieces, and pushed the back of your hidden wall safe right out in the little room behind. Eight dollars fell out. So that’s a find.”

“The furniture — was the insurance paid up?”

“There can be no doubt of that,” Awful’s voice came back. “You don’t own the furniture yet, you know. Or don’t you know?”

“Who did it?” Clay demanded indignantly.

“A little man with a big package and a red beard. Your friend — the big monkey, Lieutenant Nevina — gave me that fool answer.”

“The police are there, eh? Did you notify them?”

A pleasant but facetious little laugh came over the wire. “I’m afraid someone must have let the information leak out. You see the front of your office was blown away.”

“Yeah? Better hire that furnished office across the hall and— Were you hurt, Awful?” And when she didn’t answer right away, “Hell, Princess, you know that was my first thought. I think I’ve got a case here.”

“I can imagine the sort of case! Really, Clay, is there money in it?”

Clay saw the woman in the dining-room through the booth door. She had risen to go, then sat down again. She was trying to signal him!

“Looks like the real thing, Awful! Now, about your being hurt?”

“No, Clay, I wasn’t. Anyway, I carry accident insurance. But the police assured me that this was no accident.”

Clay said, “Damn,” when the phone clicked. He walked out of the booth to the dining-room, and before the captain could lead him to his usual table, he had pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the Woman in White.

“Hello, Helen.” Clay spoke quickly as a waiter arrived. “Imagine after all these years!” And seeing she had finished her lunch: “A small cognac for the lady and a dry martini for me... Imagine saying after all these years to one so young and beautiful! But it does seem a long time.” He stretched a hand across the table — gripped a listless wrist, caressed for a moment the little hand itself and the long, slim fingers. “I don’t like so much jewelry on a woman.”

“I think,” she knocked the ash from the cigarette on the end of her holder, “that you are one of the few men who can afford to dislike jewelry on a woman.” She gave a half nod down the room.

Clay followed that nod. Two men and a woman were sitting almost directly facing him. He said, “I picked the right position at the table then. Don’t let them bother you. I presume you wish to leave and fear that those men will try to prevent you.”

“And you, Mister Clay Holt,” green eyes flashed beneath long lashes, “would prevent them from preventing me.”

“Exactly, Goddess.” He patted her hand, added, “When you want out, you can have out.”

“My name,” she told him, “is neither Helen nor Goddess, though I profess liking the Goddess somewhat. My name is Una — you like that?”

“Sure.” Clay looked at her generous mouth, the finely shaped nose, the life in those green eyes, the long lashes and pencilled brows. He looked, too, at the intelligent forehead. “Sure,” he said again, then: “I’m not much for names. If I don’t like a name it’s simple enough to make up another. Now there’s a girl called Agatha—” Clay stopped. He was thinking of Awful, of course. Awful fitted her well enough, yet there were times — but the woman was talking.

She put her hand under the table and gripped his after the waiter left.

“You say if I want out I can have out. Alone, I mean?” Her warm little hand squeezed tighter. “I mean without those men following me.”

“Lady Una,” Clay said, “I would, if you preferred it, step out with you,” and when she shook her head, “They’re not very tough looking customers. But I’ll promise that neither one of them will leave the table until you have passed through the door and have had a few minutes to make other arrangements.”

“You are a very brave and a very foolish man.” She looked into his eyes for a moment. “And a very confident one; I might even say a conceited one. Here.” She opened her bag. “I will telephone you later. A five hundred dollar retainer now.”