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

Clay’s mouth became a little hard. Someone with real money had offered him business, and that someone was entitled to his work without it being hampered by a shadow — perhaps even a killer. The more he thought of it, the grimmer his face became. The Major might be as bad as he said he was. Maybe he would spend enough money to have him shot through the back of the head on a public street in broad daylight.

Clay passed up the taxis directly before the hotel and walked in a swinging zig-zag motion to the corner. It was a time like this when he felt he earned his reputation. There was only one sure way to prevent that man from shooting at him if the man so intended, and that was for Clay to turn suddenly and shoot that man to death.

Clay shook his head. The police wouldn’t like that; the law wouldn’t like that. Even his own lawyer wouldn’t like the job of trying to prove that the man behind him was bent on murder. As for Clay, he wouldn’t get much satisfaction in knowing that he was right — if he were dead.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw another line of taxis; jerked open the door of the first of three, and tossing himself low against the back seat said: “Holland Tube.”

The tiny mirror Clay held in his hand showed him that the man who followed him had climbed into the taxi behind and that it swung into the traffic in a line directly behind him.

Clay leaned over, and, handing the driver a five dollar bill, spoke to him seriously. The man took the money, nodded and said: “At the next light, or light after that, eh?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Clay told him, “just so that you are able to get one car between us and the taxi behind. Can do?”

“For five, can do,” the driver nodded.

It was the third light before Clay’s driver made that quick swing out of traffic and tore directly before the car already slowing down for the red flash.

“Fine!” Clay watched the light, waited until he saw the reflection of red on the cross street side, then pushed the taxi door open and stepped onto the street. He moved quickly back between the closely packed cars, reached the shadow’s taxi.

Just as the line of cars started to move, Clay jerked open the door and stepped quickly into the taxi. “Don’t move your right hand any further,” he said, “or I’ll blow it off at the wrist.”

The man stared in wonder beneath his slouch hat as Clay Holt, his gun suddenly slipping easily into his hand, sat down beside him.

Clay’s left hand knocked up the man’s hat; the gun in his right hand jarred up the man’s chin. “Brother,” Clay said, “you haven’t got a nice face.”

“Who are you?”

Clay answered easily. “Name of Holt — Clay Holt, who shot Carson Simmons to death up on a lonely street a few months back. Here we have the roaring traffic, the noise of a great city. A pistol shot would hardly be heard. There’s no use in trying to push yourself through the back of the car. You took on the job with your eyes open. You must have known the result if you failed. I was taught never to play with firearms. I’m not playing now.”

The man had his feet pulled up on the seat now, forcing his trembling body as far as it would go into the corner. “I didn’t know, Holt. I didn’t know it was you. I... I mean, I was only following you.”

Clay’s eyes were hard, and those hard eyes caught the side glance of the driver. If the chauffeur had seen him jump inside the cab or not, Clay couldn’t tell. But that the man knew he was there now, Clay was certain. He felt, too, that the driver was watching for the first policeman.

“All right,” Clay told the terror-stricken gunman, “open the door and jump for it.”

The man clutched at the handle of the door, jerked it open, and was gone, stumbling into the traffic as Clay pulled the door shut. This time when Clay opened the little window he handed the driver a ten dollar bill.

“It would be best,” he said, “to use this money to buy things that you can continue to use. A policeman won’t be much good to you if you are dead. Stop by the subway.”

Five minutes later Clay was on his way to the Newark airport. And he boarded a plane shortly after four o’clock for Washington.

Clay was well beyond Philadelphia before he realized that he still had his reservation on the five o’clock plane. But there was evidently nothing important about that. His instructions were simple enough. He was to arrive at the Paul Hotel in Washington at seven o’clock and, using the name of Captain Summers, ask for Colonel Esmond Stone.

He didn’t wonder, think, or even try to conjecture what his job was to be. He simply hoped it would be a short one so that he might give his attention to the Major. He hadn’t liked the face of the man in the taxi. He knew a killer when he saw one. But he didn’t bother about that now. Billings had said the Major was often in the Walden Grill.