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

“She’s Muriel Van Eden — Judge Van Eden’s daughter. The other woman I don’t know. But you won’t be bothered with them now. There will be no case for you there.”

“No.” Clay chewed and swallowed. “I’ve been threatened with death already. Yep! Just for letting the Woman in White walk out of this dining-room. The big man with the huge partly bald head and popping eyes—”

“It doesn’t matter, Clay. I couldn’t tell you on the telephone and I couldn’t wait until you got back to what’s left of the office. You have a case, something big. Twenty-five hundred dollars and a ticket on the five o’clock plane for Washington. Here’s the money and a sealed envelope with your instructions.”

Clay grabbed at the money, tore open the envelope, glanced at the note, said: “Good girl. Now tell me about Washington.”

There was little for Agatha to tell. The man who came to the office just after the explosion met her in the hall. He left the money and the sealed envelope.

“He said,” Agatha finished, “that he knew your trust in me and he knew you were broke.”

“A general condition.” Clay grinned: then, as he saw the head waiter at his elbow, “Greetings, Billings.”

Billings bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss. And could I have a word with you, Mr. Holt? I—” Billings leaned forward. “Why, Miss Cummings! Your dress, Miss Cummings, your hair — it’s very becoming.”

Clay burst in on Billings’ sudden embarrassment. “Don’t cover up, Billings. It’s her face that’s becoming. And you’re right. What an eye — and what tact! Remember, don’t speak a word to anyone about Miss Cummings’ sudden transformation.”

“No, sir, Mr. Holt, not a word. I can speak freely then. Jean, one of our captains, saw the Major rise and pound the table. Jean was amazed.”

“He should be.” And to himself Clay thought, “The power of suggestion!” To Billings he said: “The Major come here often?”

“Yes, sir. Most evenings he spends hours in the grill; many people visit him at his table. He holds open house, so to speak. We sized him up as tight-fisted, but when he wants extra service he’s liberal beyond all our guests — except yourself, Mr. Holt. I just didn’t wish you to think hard of him, though the manager thinks you said something to anger him.”

“It’s no use, Billings.” Clay grinned. “I won’t talk. I won’t make a complaint, even if the Major did.”

“Indeed he didn’t, Mr. Holt. He spoke most highly of you to the manager. To be frank, sir, the manager would like to know if there’s any difference of opinions remaining between you and Major Hoff.”

“Frankly you mean hard feelings between me and Major Hoff? Don’t worry, Billings. Major Hoff was interested in my health, offered to pay out of his own pocket for a doctor’s opinion.”

“It’s like him, sir.”

“Of course.” Clay came to his feet. “The Major recommended everything but an undertaker for me and I’m sure that was an oversight on his part.”

“I’m sure it was, sir,” Billings echoed politely.

Clay Holt felt pretty good as he saw the Princess leave by the north entrance to the hotel. He liked her easy carriage, the way women turned to look at her. Men turned, too, but he wasn’t sure he liked that. Agatha Cummings! He made a face as he thought of that name. Awful or the Princess, what did it matter? She had everything, courage, loyalty and patience, a belief in him — and she could take it.

He felt good because he had money in his pocket. He liked the feel of heavy dough. He was used to it. And he was used to earning it.

Clay stopped at the cigar counter. “You still here, sweetheart?” he said to the girl behind the counter. “It’s a crime. I’ll speak to Georgie over at the Paris Night Spot. He’ll have a place for you sure. One of those cigars. Sure, the fifty cent ones. Do you think I smoke rope?”

He left the hotel by the downtown side. The cigar stuck in his throat, made him cough. He tossed it into the gutter and drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He couldn’t stand cigars. He hated the taste of them.

Cigarettes! He smiled. Cigarettes always did a man good. It did him good right then. He had turned slightly when he bent to get his light, and before he had straightened and started down the street, he had spotted his shadow.

The man held his right hand deep in his overcoat pocket. Clay couldn’t see his face hidden beneath the rakishly tilted gray fedora. Clay’s right hand involuntarily slipped up under his jacket. For a single moment it caressed the gun which lay snugly in its shoulder harness under his left armpit.

So the Major was on the job. The Major was a man who believed in action, and the youthful Mr. Davis of erect carriage and military bearing saw that he got it. Clay shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing easier than shaking off a shadow.