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

“A thousand is the smallest I—” Clay started as he saw the roll in that bag. Then he saw her eyes. “Una,” he stood up, “the little you request is a pleasure. You may leave when I give you the nod. Under no circumstances are you in the slightest danger. I will talk to them like a stern parent.”

Clay Holt faced the two men. Of course they saw him. He wanted them to see him. Then he walked slowly toward their table.

Of the three people at that table the girl showed the most interest at Clay’s approach. She was slim, sat very erect, her wide blue eyes on him. Somehow Clay thought of her as a spoiled child as he placed his hands on the back of the single unoccupied chair.

A tall man about thirty faced the girl. He wore tightly trimmed little mustaches and his clipped sandy hair bristled. Now his eyes shifted sideways to stare up at Clay.

It was the partially bald man directly across the table to whom Clay gave his entire attention. Tiny lines of veins etched his forehead and were turning a purple blue, like rivers watched from a plane far above the countryside.

The bald man’s bulging eyes rested on Clay’s face, held there. It was some time before he spoke. His puckered lips moved precisely. “Why am I favored by this visit?”

Clay said pleasantly, “I picked you out to do a lady a service. She’s leaving the dining-room, and I promised her you would remain seated until a few minutes after she had gone.” Clay’s smile broadened. “Rather simple, eh? I’ll give her the nod to leave now.”

“No.” The colorless eyes contracted into points of sharp steel. “She will come over and join us here. I have a message for her which will erase from her mind all desire to leave alone. Now take yourself off and inform the charming lady in white that I wish her presence.”

Clay said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve already promised the lady. I’m a plain-spoken man, sir. It’s best that you understand me in the beginning. If you come to your feet or leave this table it will be the greatest mistake of your life.”

The man’s huge lips puckered like a baby’s. “I never make mistakes, Mr. Holt. Yes, I know you. I know that you are going to tell me how tough you are. I know that you jumped into prominence a few months ago by shooting some notorious racketeer dead on a lonely side street at two o’clock in the morning. But fame dies quickly. I did not hear of you again.”

“You hear of me now,” Clay told him. “I am giving the lady her signal. If you get on your feet after that, I’ll bust into fame once more.”

The man with the thin, sharp face spoke for the first time. “I wouldn’t press the point, Major,” he said. “This man, Holt, has a bad name.”

The Major turned his head and looked at his companion. The girl coughed and the Major turned his eyes back to Clay. He was deliberate in his words:

“This is not a lonely street. This is the Walden dining-room at midday. You interest me, Mr. Holt. You have, you say, made the woman a promise. I will be pleased to observe how you work out your problem.” He waved a hand toward the half-filled dining-room. “Give the lady your signal and I will see that she takes the chair — the back of which you now grip so tightly — not in anger, I hope.”

Clay’s shoulders moved up and down. He said, “I’m sorry, Major, that you insist on a demonstration which will not please you.” He turned his head quickly, nodded to Una, then, pushing the chair aside, leaned far over the table. “You will remain seated, Major.”

The Major very slowly looked toward the woman in white. Just as slowly he smiled and deliberately pushed his chair back and came to his feet.

“Sit down!” Clay roared the words as his right fist crashed down on the table.

The smile was wiped from the Major’s face. He jarred back down in his chair. For ten seconds he wasn’t fully aware of just what had happened. In that respect he was like the rest of the guests.

Every dish on that table jumped, every glass overturned. The Major’s coffee bounced from the cup into his lap. The girl, with womanly instinct to protect her clothes, slid her chair back. The head waiter was there, two captains, four waiters. They looked dumbly at Clay, who had pulled out the chair and slipped into it before the few seconds of amazement were past.

Clay was the first to speak. He said easily to the head waiter, “The Major overemphasized a point in his story, and he’ll want another cup of coffee.”

“Yes, Mr. Holt.” The man waited for further explanation which did not come, then gave quick orders to the waiters. The cloth was replaced by a fresh one; other cutlery was upon the table. The Major had his coffee.

“Billings,” the Major slipped a bill into the head waiter’s hand, “you will take care of the boys and accept my regrets.” And as Billings still waited: “Mr. Holt was not quite correct; I am afraid I underemphasized a point most deploringly.”

When the waiters had gone Clay lowered his voice, said: “Well, Major, how did you like my act? No hard feelings, I hope. As a rule, I charge a high purse for such a bit of fireworks.”